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18  H. 


THE 


BOSTON    BOOK 


BEING    SPECIMENS    OF 


METROPOLITAN   LITERATURE 


BOSTON: 

GEORGE  W.  LIGHT,  1  CORNHILL. 

1841. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1840,  by  Ggorge 
W.  Light,  in  tlio  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  Massa- 
chusetts, 


PREFACE. 


The  Publisher  of  the  Boston  Book,  encouraged 
by  the  favorable  reception  of  the  previous  num- 
bers, offers  to  the  public  a  third  collection  of 
specimens  of  metropolitan  literature.  In  its  plan 
and  character,  our  present  number  essentially 
resembles  the  former  ones.  It  consists  of  pieces 
of  prose  and  verse,  written  by  persons  who  are  or 
have  been  residents  of  Boston  and  its  immediate 
vicinity.  Most  of  the  writers  are  yet  among  the 
living,  and  the  productions  of  all  of  them  belong 
to  the  literature  of  our  own  age.  No  particular 
plan  has  been  followed  in  the  arrangement  and 
succession  of  the  contents.  The  aim  of  the  com- 
piler has  been  to  give  to  this  volume  a  character 
somewhat  more  popular  and  less  grave,  than  has 
marked  its  predecessors,  and,  on  this  principle, 


yJJi  PREFACE. 

some  names,  of  much  literary  merit,  have  been 
excluded,  on  account  of  the  exclusively  didactic 
character  of  their  writings.  This  has  somewhat 
increased  the  difficulty  of  the  task  of  selection,  as 
our  literature  is,  generally  speaking,  marked  by 
that  seriousness  and  sobriety,  which  are  promi- 
nent traits  in  the  manners  and  character  of  the 
people  of  New  England. 

The  remarks  on  the  character  of  Franklin,  on 
the  eighty-sixth  page,  are  from  the  third  volume 
of  Mr.  Bancroft's  valuable  history,  which  has 
not  yet  been  published,  and  the  Publisher  of  the 
present  work  takes  this  opportunity  to  express 
his  acknowledgments  to  him  for  allowing  the 
publication  of  this  extract  to  be  anticipated  in 
the  Boston  Book; 

Boston,  November,  1840. 


CONTENTS 


Bforal  Defects  of  Scholars— by  J.  S.  Buckminster, 13 

Art — bj  Charles  Sprag-ue, 18 

Isabella  of  Spam  and  Elizabeth  of  England— by  Wm.  H.Prescott,  .  20 

The  Steamboat— by  O.  W.  Holmes, 25 

Peter  Rugg,  the  JMissing  Man— by  William  Austin, 28 

Wreck  of  the  Hesperus— by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 74 

Three  Pictures  of  Boston — by  Edward  Everett,    78 

Lines  on  Leaving  Europe — by  N.  P.  Willis, 82 

Character  of  Franklin — by  George  Bancroft, 86 

"  Passing  away '' — by  John  Pierpont,    92 

Fate  of  the  Indians — by  Joseph  Story, 95 

"  How  Cheery  are  the  3Iariners  ! " — by  Park  Benjamin, 98 

A  New  England  Sketch— by  Harriet  E.  Beecher, 100 

On  a  very  old  Wedding  Ring — by  George  W.  Doane, 140 

Unwritten  Music— by  N.  P.  Willis, 142 

The  Days  that  are  Past— by  Epes  Sargent, 157 

The  Sea— by  F.  W.  P.  Greenwood, 159 

The  Villager's  Winter  Evening  Song — by  James  T.  Fields,    ....  167 

Howe's  Masquerade — by  Nathaniel  Hawthorne, 168 

Sachem's  Hill— by  Eliza  L.  Follen, 190 


^  CONTENTS. 

Life  ill  Sweden— by  II.  W.  Longfellow, 193 

To  my  JMother  in  New  England— by  William  B.  Tappan, 202 

The  Preaching  of  Whitefield— by  Mrs.  Child, 205 

Gathering  of  the  Fairies— by  Rufus  Dawes, 209 

Westward  3Iovemcnt  of  Civilization— by  J.  L.  Motley, 213 

A  Fable— by  Frances  S.  Osgood, 218 

Self-Culture— by  William  E.  Channing, 221 

Scene  aft^r  a  Summer  Shower— by  Andrews  Norton, 226 

Curiosity  Baffled- by  Edward  Everett, 228 

The  Dying  Archer— by  R.  C.  AVaterston, 249 

Domestic  Influence  of  Children — ^by  R.  H.  Dana, .  251 

Dirge  of  Alaric,  the  Visigoth — b}^  Edward  Everett, 255 

Sketch  of  Captain  Nathan  Hale— by  Jarcd  Sparks, 259 

America  to  Great  Britain — by  Washington  Allston, 265 

Notch  in  the  White  Mountains— by  J.  T.  Buckingham, 267 

The  Free  Mind— by  W.  L.  Garrison, 272 

Visit  to  Lafayette— by  Henry  R.  Cleveland, 273 

Lines  Written  on  the  Death  of  a  Daughter— by  Joseph  Story,   .  .  ,  279 

Life  at  Sea— by  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr., 283 

The  Annoyer— by  N.  P.  Willis, 291 

Ravenna— by  H.  T.  Tuckerman, 293 

Departed  Days— by  O.  W.  Holmes, 298 

Ram,  a  Colloquial  Lecture— by  Wm.  H.  Simmons, 299 

Tlie  Island— by  R.  H.  Dana,  . 307 

Church-Yard  Sketches— by  B.  B.  Thatcher, 309 

To  Fanni  in  a  Ball  Dress— by  John  Everett, 314 

Offices  of  Education— by  Horace  Mann, 315 

A  Psalm  of  Life— by  Henry  W.  Longfellow, 323 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


Sketches  of  Canton—by  Howard  Malcom, 325 

Palestine — by  John  Picrpont, 331 

Character  of  Samuel  Adams— by  William  Tudor, 333 

The  Indians — by  Charles  Sprague, ' 338 

The  Barnstable  Boy— by  J.  G.  Palfrey, 340 

Tlie  Still  Small  Voice— by  Geo.  W.  Light, 343 

Blanners  of  Washington — by  William  Sullivan, 345 

The  Brothers— by  Charles  Spragiie, •.  .  .  349 

Duties  of  American  Mothers-*by  Daniel  Webster, 350 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


MORAL  DEFECTS  OF  SCHOLARS. 

By   J.   S.   BUCKMINSTER. 

The  moral  defects  and  faults  of  temper,  to  which 
scholars  are  exposed,  are  not  peculiar  to  any  country. 
It  is  everywhere  the  natural  tendency  of  a  life  of 
retirement  and  contemplation,  to  generate  the  notion 
of  innocence  and  moral  security  ;  but  men  of  letters 
should  remember,  that,  in  the  eye  of  reason  and  of 
Christianity,  simple  unprofitableness  is  always  a  crime. 
They  should  know,  too,  that  there  are  solitary  dis- 
eases of  the  imagination  not  less  fatal  to  the  mind 
than  the  vices  of  society.  He  who  pollutes  his 
fancy  with  his  books,  may,  in  fact,  be  more  culpable 
than  he  who  is  seduced  into  the  haunts  of  debauchery 
by  the  force  of  passion  or  example.  He  who  by  his 
sober  studies  only  feeds  his  selfishness  or  his  pride  of 
knowledge,  may  be  more  to  blame  than  the  pedant 
or  the  coxcomb  in  literature,  though  not  so  ridiculous. 
2 


14  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

That  learning,  whatever  it  may  be,  which  lives  and 
dies  with  the  possessor,  is  more  worthless  than  his 
w^ealth,  which  descends  to  his  posterity  ;  and,  where 
the  heart  remains  uncultivated  and  the  affections  slug- 
gish, the  mere  man  of  curious  erudition  may  stand, 
indeed,  as  an  object  of  popular  admiration,  but  he 
stands  like  the  occasional  palaces  of  ice  in  the  regions 
of  the  north,  the  work  of  vanity,  lighted  up  with  arti- 
ficial lustre,  yet  cold,  useless,  and  uninhabited,  and 
soon  to  pass  away  without  leaving  a  trace  of  their 
existence.  You,  then,  who  feel  yourselves  sinking 
under  the  gentle  pressure  of  sloth,  or  who  seek  in 
learned  seclusion  that  moral  security  which  is  the 
reward  only  of  virtuous  resolution,  remember,  you  do 
not  escape  from  temptations,  much  less  from  respon- 
sibility, by  retiring  to  the  repose  and  silence  of  your 
libraries. 

I  pass  over  many  of  the  faults  of  scholars,  and 
what  Bacon  calls  the  "  peccant  humors  of  learning," 
such  as  the  love  of  singularity,  contempt  for  practical 
wisdom,  the  weakness  of  literary  vanity,  and  the 
disease  of  pedantry,  to  warn  you  against  two  principal 
evils,  of  which  one  is  that  alienation  of  afiection,  so 
frequent  among  men  of  letters.  Their  history  is,  too 
often,  that  of  factions  and  intrigues,  of  envy  and 
recrimination.  The  odium  theologicum  has,  long 
since,  become  a  proverb  ;  and,  perhaps,  there  are 
few  wTiters  whose  libraries  have  not,  at  some  time, 
been  a  repository  of  poisoned  darts,  and  implements 
of  literary  warfare.     In  modern  times,  the  licentious- 


DEFECTS  OF  SCHOLARS.  15 

ness  of  criticism  has  aggravated  this  evil.  The  shafts 
of  Apollo,  the  god  of  criticism,  are  as  numerous, 
and  often  as  envenomed,  as  those  which  the  same 
god,  under  a  different  character,  launched  among  the 
Greeks  at  the  prayer  of  Chryses,  his  offended  priest. 
It  is  fortunate,  however,  that  in  the  arrows  of  criti- 
cism the  smart  of  the  wound  is  greater  than  the 
danger.  Authors,  jealous  of  reputation,  or  conscious 
of  merit,  have  lost  all  the  influence  of  their  phi- 
losophy and  all  the  meekness  of  their  religion  under 
anonymous  attack,  or  in  their  ardor  for  repelling  it. 
It  is  painful  to  dwell  on  the  animosities  of  the  learned, 
however  just  they  may  sometimes  appear  ;  but  it  is 
well  for  us  to  know  that  the  last  lesson,  which  great 
minds  learn,  is  to  bear  a  superior,  or  be  just  to  a  rival. 
Ev'Cn  Newton  and  Leibnitz  (and  I  can  go  no  higher) 
were  alienated  and  debased  by  their  mutual  jealousy. 
They  separated,  they  accused,  they  recriminated ; 
and  the  cool  mathematicians  of  Europe  were  heated 
by  their  quarrels.  When  w^e  read  the  works  of  these 
two  sublime  men,  we  should  as  soon  have  expected  a 
collision  in  the  celestial  spheres  which  they  were  in 
the  habit  of  contemplating  ;  and,  if  they  have  met  in 
the  calm  regions  of  intellectual  purity  and  light,  no 
doubt  they  are  content  to  leave  with  posterity  their 
angry  dispute  about  the  invention  of  fluxions,  and 
wonder  at  the  imperfection  of  terrestrial  greatness. 

The  other  dangerous  infirmity  of  scholars,  against 
which  we  should  be  always  on  our  guard,  is  the  indis- 
criminate imitation  of  the  eminent.     There  are  many 


IQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

who  seek  to  show  their  relation  to  men  of  genius  by 
exhibiting  some  kindred  deformity.  If  they  know 
any  thing  of  the  history  of  authors,  we  find  thern 
quoting  their  authority,  and  seeking  shelter  behind 
their  defects  ;  if  not,  they  content  themselves  with 
copying  the  irregularities  of  some  living  and  contem- 
porary genius.  It  is  so  old  a  fiction,  that  contempt 
of  rules  and  orders  is  a  constituent  of  genius,  that 
one  would  think  it  should  have  lost  its  authority. 
We  have  had  deep  philosophers,  who  would  not 
hav^e  been  suspected  of  thinking,  except  for  their 
occasional  absences  of  mind  ;  and  fine  spirits,  who 
were  thought  to  resemble  Horace,  because  they  could 
roar  a  catch,  or  empty  a  cask  of  Falernian.  We 
have  had  satirists,  with  nothing  of  Dryden  but  his 
vulgarity,  and  of  Churchill  but  his  malice  ;  wits,  who 
got  drunk,  because  Addison  was  not  always  sober ; 
liquorish  writers,  in  imitation  of  Sterne  ;  and  others 
foul  from  the  pages  of  Swift.  We  have  had  para- 
doxes and  confessions  in  the  style  of  Rosseau,  without 
any  of  his  genius,  and  freethinkers  innumerable  of 
the  school  of  Voltaire,  who  could  not  afford  to  be,  at 
once,  wits  and  Christians.  In  a  more  harmless  way, 
we  have  had  sterile  writers,  whose  veins  would  flow 
only  at  particular  seasons ;  puny  moralists,  talking 
big  like  Johnson  ;  orators,  with  nothing,  as  one  may 
say,  of  Tully,  but  his  wart,  and  of  Demosthenes, 
but  his  stammer ;  in  short,  we  have  had  enough 
of  "  the  contortions  of  the  Sybil,  without  her  inspi- 
ration." 


DEFECTS  OF  SCHOLARS.  |7 

The  infirmities  of  noble  minds  are  often  so  conse- 
crated by  their  greatness,  that  an  unconscious  imitation 
of  their  peculiarities,  which  are  real  defects,  may 
sometimes  be  pardoned  in  their  admirers.  But  to 
copy  their  vices,  or  to  hunt  in  their  works  for  those 
very  lines  which,  when  dying,  they  would  most  wish 
to  blot,  is  a  different  offence.  I  know  of  nothing  in 
literature  so  unpardonable  as  this.  He  who  poaches 
among  the  labors  of  the  learned  only  to  find  what 
there  is  polluted  in  their  language,  or  licentious  in 
their  w^orks, — he  who  searches  the  biography  of  men 
of  genius  to  find  precedents  for  his  follies,  or  j^allia- 
tions  of  his  own  stupid  depravity,  can  be  compared 
to  nothing  more  strongly  than  to  the  man  who  should 
w^alk  through  the  gallery  of  antiques,  and  every  day 
gaze  upon  the  Apollo,  the  Venus,  or  the  Laocoon, 
and  yet,  proh  jmdor !  bring  away  an  imagination 
impressed  with  nothing  but  the  remembrance  that 
they  were  naked. 


ART. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 


When  from  the  sacred  garden  driven, 

Man  fled  before  his  Maker's  wrath, 
An  Angel  left  her  place  in  heaven, 

And  crossed  the  wanderer's  sunless  path. 
'T  was  Art  !  bright  Art  !  new  radiance  broke, 

Where  her  light  foot  flew  o'er  the  ground  ; 
And  thus  with  seraph  voice  she  spoke, 

"  The  curse  a  blessing  shall  be  found." 

She  led  him  through  the  trackless  wild, 

Where  noontide  sunbeam  never  blazed  ; — 
The  thistle  shrunk — the  harvest  smiled, 

And  nature  gladdened  as  she  gazed. 
Earth's  thousand  tribes  of  living  things, 

At  Art's  command  to  him  are  given, 
The  village  grows,  the  city  springs. 

And  point  their  spires  of  faith  to  heaven. 

He  rends  the  oak — and  bids  it  ride, 
To  guard  the  shores  its  beauty  graced ; 

He  smites  the  rock — upheaved,  in  pride, 
See  towers  of  strength  and  domes  of  taste. 


ART.  19 

Earth's  teeming  caves  their  wealth  reveal, 

Fire  bears  his  banner  on  the  wave, 
He  bids  the  mortal  poison  heal, 

And  leaps  triumphant  o'er  the  grave. 

He  plucks  the  pearls  that  stud  the  deep, 

Admiring  Beauty's  lap  to  fill ; 
He  breaks  the  stubborn  marble's  sleep. 

And  mocks  his  own  Creator's  skill. 
With  thoughts  that  fill  his  glowing  soul. 

He  bids  the  ore  illume  the  page, 
And  proudly  scorning  time's  control, 

Commerces  with  an  unborn  age. 

In  fields  of  air  he  writes  his  name. 

And  treads  the  chambers  of  the  sky  ; 
He  reads  the  stars,  and  grasps  the  flame 

That  quivers  round  the  Throne  on  high. 
In  war  renowned,  in  peace  sublime. 

He  moves  in  greatness  and  in  grace ; 
His  power,  subduing  space  and  time. 

Links  realm  to  realm,  and  race  to  race. 


ISABELLA   OF   SPAIN    AND    ELIZABETH 
OF   ENGLAND. 

By  William  H.  Prescott. 

It  is  in  the  amiable  qualities  of  her  sex  that  Isa- 
bella's superiority  becomes  most  apparent  over  her 
illustrious  namesake,  Elizabeth  of  England,*  whose 
history  presents  some  features  parallel  to  her  own. 
Both  were  disciplined  in  early  life  by  the  teachings 
of  that  stern  nurse  of  wisdom,  adversity.  Both  were 
made  to  experience  the  deepest  humiliation  at  the 
hands  of  their  nearest  relative,  who  should  have  cher- 
ished and  protected  them.  Both  succeeded  in  estab- 
lishing themselves  on  the  throne  after  the  most  pre- 
carious vicissitudes.  Each  conducted  her  kingdom, 
through  a  long  and  triumphant  reign,  to  a  height  of 
glory  which  it  had  never  before  reached.  Both  lived 
to  see  the  vanity  of  all  earthly  grandeur,  and  to  fall 
the  victims  of  an  inconsolable  melancholy  ;  and  both 
left  behind  an  illustrious  name,  unrivalled  in  the  sub- 
sequent annals  of  the  country. 


*  Isabel,  the  name  of  the  Catholic  queen,  is  correctly  rendered  into 
English  by  that  of  Elizabeth. 


ISABELLA  AND  ELIZABETH.  ^1 

But  with  these  few  circumstances  of  their  history, 
the  resemblance  ceases.  Their  characters  afford 
scarcely  a  point  of  contact.  Elizabeth,  inheriting  a 
large  share  of  the  bold  and  bluff  King  Harry's  tem- 
perament, was  haughty,  arrogant,  coarse  and  irascible  ; 
while  with  these  fiercer  qualities  she  mingled  deep 
dissimulation  and  strange  irresolution.  Isabella,  on 
the  other  hand,  tempered  the  dignity  of  royal  station 
with  the  most  bland  and  courteous  manners.  Once 
resolved,  she  was  constant  in  her  purposes  ;  and  her 
conduct  in  public  and  private  life  was  characterized 
by  candor  and  integrity.  Both  may  be  said  to  have 
shown  that  magnanimity  which  is  implied  by  the 
accomplishment  of  great  objects  in  the  face  of  great 
obstacles.  But  Elizabeth  was  desperately  selfish  ; 
she  was  incapable  of  forgiving,  not  merely  a  real 
injury,  but  the  slightest  affront  to  her  vanity  ;  and  she 
was  merciless  in  exacting  retribution.  Isabella,  on  the 
other  hand,  lived  only  for  others, — was  ready  at  all 
times  to  sacrifice  self  to  considerations  of  public  duty  ; 
and,  far  from  personal  resentments,  showed  the  greatest 
condescension  and  kindness  to  those  who  had  most 
sensibly  injured  her ;  while  her  benevolent  heart 
sought  every  means  to  mitigate  the  authorized  severi- 
ties of  the  law,  even  towards  the  guilty. 

Both  possessed  rare  fortitude.  Isabella,  indeed, 
was  placed  in  situations  which  demanded  more  fre- 
quent and  higher  displays  of  it  than  her  rival ;  but  no 
one  will  doubt  a  full  measure  of  this  quality  in  the 
daughter  of  Henry  the  Eighth.     Elizabeth  was  better 


22  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

educated,  and  every  way  more  highly  accomplished 
than  Isabella.  But  the  latter  knew  enough  to  main- 
tain her  station  with  dignity  ;  and  she  encouraged 
learning  by  a  munificent  patronage.  The  masculine 
powers  and  passions  of  Elizabeth  seemed  to  divorce 
her  in  a  great  measure  from  the  peculiar  attributes 
of  her  sex  ;  at  least  from  those  which  constitute  its 
peculiar  charm  ;  for  she  had  abundance  of  its  foibles — 
a  coquetry  and  love  of  admiration  which  age  could 
not  chill  ;  a  levity  most  careless,  if  not  criminal ;  and 
a  fondness  for  dress  and  tawdry  magnificence  of  orna- 
ment, which  was  ridiculous,  or  disgusting,  according  to 
the  different  periods  of  life  In  which  it  was  indulged. 
Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  distinguished  through  life 
for  decorum  of  manners,  and  purity  beyond  the  breath 
of  calumnv,  was  content  with  the  leoitimate  affection 
which  she  could  inspire  within  the  range  of  her  do- 
mestic circle.  Far  from  a  frivolous  affectation  of 
ornament  or  dress,  she  was  most  simple  in  her  own 
attire,  and  seemed  to  set  no  value  on  her  jewels,  but 
as  they  could  serve  the  necessities  of  the  state  ;  when 
they  could  be  no  longer  useful  in  this  way,  she  gave 
them  away  to  her  friends. 

Both  were  uncommonly  sagacious  in  the  selection 
of  their  ministers  ;  though  Elizabeth  was  drawn  into 
some  errors  in  this  particular,  by  her  levity,  as  was 
Isabella  by  religious  feeling.  It  w^as  this,  combined 
with  her  excessive  humility,  which  led  to  the  only 
grave  errors  in  the  administration  of  the  latter.  Her 
rival  fell  into  no  such  errors  ;  and  she  was  a  strani^er 


ISABELLA  AND  ELIZABETH.         23 

to  the  amiable  qualities  which  led  to  them.  Her 
conduct  was  certainly  not  controlled  by  religious 
principle  ;  and,  though  the  bulwark  of  the  Protestant 
faith,  it  might  be  difficult  to  say  whether  she  were  at 
heart  most  a  Protestant  or  a  Catholic.  She  viewed 
religion  in  its  connexion  with  the  stale,  in  other  words, 
with  herself;  and  she  tcok  measures  for  enforcing 
conformity  to  her  o\\'n  views,  not  a  whit  less  despotic, 
and  scarcely  less  sanguinary,  than  those  countenanced 
for  conscience'  sake  by  her  more  bigoted  rival. 

This  feature  of  bigotry,  which  has  thrown  a  shade 
over  Isabella's  otherwise  beautiful  character,  mio-ht 
lead  to  a  disparagement  of  her  intellectual  power 
compared  with  that  of  the  English  queen.  To  esti- 
mate this  aright,  we  must  contemplate  the  results  of 
their  respective  reigns.  Elizabeth  found  all  the  mate- 
rials of  prosperity  at  hand,  and  availed  herself  of  them 
most  ably  to  build  up  a  solid  fabric  of  national  gran- 
deur. Isabella  created  these  materials.  She  saw 
the  faculties  of  her  people  locked  up  in  a  deathlike 
lethargy,  and  she  breathed  into  them  the  breath  of 
life  for  those  great  and  heroic  enterprises,  which  termi- 
nated in  such  glorious  consequences  to  the  monarchy. 
It  is  when  viewed  from  the  depressed  position  of  her 
early  days,  that  the  achievements  of  her  reign  seem 
scarcely  less  than  miraculous.  The  masculine  genius 
of  the  English  queen  stands  out  rellcjved  beyond  its 
natural  dimensions  by  its  separation  from  the  softer 
qualities  of  her  sex.  While  her  rival's,  like  some  vast, 
but  symmetrical  edifice,  loses  in  appearance  somewhat 


24  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

of  its  actual  grandeur  from  the  perfect  harmony  of  its 
proportions. 

The  circumstances  of  their  deaths,  which  were 
somewhat  similar,  displayed  the  great  dissimilarity  of 
their  characters.  Both  pined  amidst  their  royal  state, 
a  prey  to  incurable  despondency,  rather  than  any 
marked  bodily  distemper.  In  Elizabeth  it  sprung 
from  wounded  vanity,  a  sullen  conviction  that  she  had 
outlived  the  admiration  on  which  she  had  so  lonsj 
fed, — and  even  the  solace  of  friendship,  and  the  at- 
tachment of  her  subjects.  Nor  did  she  seek  consola- 
tion, where  alone  it  was  to  be  found,  in  that  sad  hour. 
Isabella,  on  the  other  hand,  sunk  under  a  too  acute 
sensibility  to  the  sufferings  of  others.  But,  amidst 
the  gloom  which  gathered  around  her,  she  looked 
with  the  eye  of  faith  to  the  brighter  prospects  which 
unfolded  of  the  future ;  and  when  she  resigned  her 
last  breath,  it  was  amidst  the  tears  and  universal 
lamentations  of  her  people. 


I 


THE  STEAMBOAT. 


By  O.  W.  Holmes. 

See  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves  ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind, 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind. 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 

The  morning  spray,  like  sea-born  flowers, 

With  heaped  and  glistening  bells. 
Falls  round  her  fast,  in  ringing  showers. 

With  every  wave  that  swells  ; 
And  flaming  o'er  the  midnight  deep, 

In  lurid  fringes  thrown. 
The  living  gems  of  ocean  sweep 

Along  her  flashing  zone. 

With  clashing  wheel,  and  lifting  keel. 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud,  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by  ! 
3 


26  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

When  seas  are  silent  and  serene, 

With  even  beam  she  glides, 
The  sunshine  glimmering  through  the  green 

That  skirts  her  gleaming  sides. 

Now,  like  a  wild  nymph,  far  apart 

She  veils  her  shadowy  form, 
The  beating  of  her  restless  heart 

Still  sounding  through  the  storm  ; 
Now  answers,  like  a  courtly  dame, 

The  reddening  surges  o'er. 
With  flying  scarf  of  spangled  flame, 

The  Pharos  of  the  shore. 

To-night  yon  pilot  shall  not  sleep, 

Who  trims  his  narrowed  sail ; 
To-night  yon  frigate  scarce  shall  keep 

Her  broad  breast  to  the  gale  ; 
And  many  a  foresail,  scooped  and  strained. 

Shall  break  from  yard  and  stay, 
Before  this  smoky  wreath  has  stained 

The  rising  mist  of  day. 

Hark  !  hark  !   I  hear  yon  whistling  shroud, 

I  see  yon  quivering  mast ; 
The  black  throat  of  the  hunted  cloud 

Is  panting  forth  the  blast ! 
An  hour,  and  whirled  like  winnowing  chaflT, 

The  giant  surge  shall  fling 
His  tresses  o'er  yon  pennon  staff, 

White  as  the  sea-bird's  wing  ! 


THE  STEAMBOAT.  g-; 

Yet  rest,  ye  wanderers  of  the  deep  ; 

Nor  wind  nor  wave  shall  tire 
Those  fleshless  arms,  whose  pulses  leap 

With  floods  of  living  fire  ; 
Sleep  on — and  when  the  morning  light 

Streams  o'er  the  shining  bay, 
O  think  of  those  for  whom  the  night 

Shall  never  wake  in  day  I 


PETER  RUGG,  THE  MISSING  MAN. 

By  William  Austin. 

FROM    JONATHAN    DUNWELL    OF     NEW    YORK,    TO     MR. 
HERMAN    KRAUFF. 

Sir  : — Agreeably  to  my  promise,  I  now  relate  to  you 
all  the  particulars  of  the  lost  man  and  child  which  I 
have  been  able  to  collect.  It  is  entirely  owing  to  the 
humane  interest  you  seemed  to  take  in  the  report,  that 
I  have  pursued  the  inquiry  to  the  following  result. 

You  may  remember  that  business  called  me  to 
Boston  in  the  summer  of  1820.  I  sailed  in  the  packet 
to  Providence;  and  Vviien  I  arrived  there,  I  learned 
tliat  every  seat  in  the  stage  was  engaged.  I  was  thus 
obliged  either  to  wait  a  few  hours,  or  accept  a  seat 
with  the  driver,  who  civilly  offered  me  that  accom- 
modation. Accordingly  I  took  my  seat  by  his  side, 
and  soon  found  him  intelligent  and  communicative. 
When  we  had  travelled  about  ten  miles,  the  horses 
suddenly  threw  their  ears  on  their  necks,  as  flat  as  a 
hare's.  Said  the  driver,  "  Have  you  a  surtout  with 
you?" 

'^  No,"  said  I ;  "  why  do  you  ask  ?" 


PETER  RUGG.  39 

"  You  will  want  one  soon,"  said  he.  "Do  you 
observe  the  ears  of  all  the  horses  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  and  was  just  about  to  ask  the  reason. 

*'They  see  the  storm  breeder,  and  we  shall  see 
him  soon." 

At  this  moment  there  was  not  a  cloud  visible  in  the 
firmament.  Soon  after,  a  small  speck  appeared  in 
the  road. 

"  There,"  said  my  companion,"  comes  the  storm 
breeder;  he  always  leaves  a  Scotch  mist  behind  him. 
By  many  a  wet  jacket  do  I  remember  him.  I  suppose 
the  poor  fellow  suffers  much  himself — much  more 
than  is  known  to  the  world." 

Presently  a  man  with  a  child  beside  him,  with  a 
large  black  horse,  and  a  weather-beaten  chair,  once 
built  for  a  chaise  body,  passed  in  great  haste,  appa- 
rently at  the  rate  of  twelve  miles  an  hour.  He  seemed 
to  grasp  the  reins  of  his  horse  with  firmness,  and 
appeared  to  anticipate  his  speed.  He  seemed  dejected, 
and  looked  anxiously  at  the  passengers,  particularly 
at  the  stage  driver  and  myself.  In  a  moment  after 
he  passed  us,  the  horses'  ears  were  up,  and  bent 
themselves  forward  so  that  they  nearly  met. 

"  Who  is  that  man  ?"  said  I ;  "  he  seems  in  great 
trouble." 

'•'Nobody  knows  who  he  is,  but  his  person  and  the 
child  are  familiar  to  me.  I  have  met  him  more  than 
a  hundred  times,  and  have  been  so  often  asked  the 
way  to  Boston  by  that  man,  even  when  he  was 
travelling  directly  from  that  town,  that  of  late  I  have 
3* 


30  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

refused  any  communication  with  him  ;  and  that  is  the 
reason  he  gave  me  such  a  fixed  look." 

"  But  does  he  never  stop  any  where  ?" 

"  I  have  never  known  him  to  stop  any  where, 
longer  than  to  inquire  the  way  to  Boston  ;  and  let 
him  be  where  he  may,  he  will  tell  you  he  cannot  stay 
a  moment,  for  he  must  reach  Boston  that  night." 

We  were  now  ascending  a  high  hill  in  Walpole  ; 
and  as  we  had  a  fair  view  of  the  heavens,  I  was 
rather  disposed  to  jeer  the  driver  for  thinking  of  his 
surtout,  as  not  a  cloud  as  big  as  a  marble  could  be 
discerned. 

"  Do  you  look."  said  he,  "  in  the  direction  whence 
the  man  came  ;  that  is  the  place  to  look.  The  storm 
never  meets  him,  it  follows  him." 

We  presently  approached  another  hill  ;  and  when 
at  the  height  the  driver  pointed  out  in  an  eastern 
direction  a  little  black  speck  about  as  big  as  a  hat — 
"  There,"  said  he,  "  is  the  seed  storm  ;  we  may 
possibly  reach  Policy's  before  it  reaches  us,  but  the 
wanderer  and  his  child  will  go  to  Providence  through 
rain,  thunder  and  lightning." 

And  now  the  horses,  as  though  taught  by  instinct, 
hastened  with  increased  speed.  The  little  black  cloud 
came  on  rolling  over  the  turnpike,  and  doubled  and 
trebled  itself  in  all  directions.  The  appearance  of 
this  cloud  attracted  the  notice  of  all  the  passengers  ; 
for  after  it  had  spread  itself  to  a  great  bulk,  it  suddenly 
became  more  limited  in  circumference,  grew  more 
compact,  dark  and   consolidated.     And  now  the  sue- 


PETER  RUGG.  31 

cessive  flashes  of  chain  lightning  caused  the  whole 
cloud  to  appear  like  a  sort  of  irregular  net  work,  and 
displayed  a  thousand  fantastic  images.  The  driver 
bespoke  my  attention  to  a  remarkable  configuration  in 
the  cloud  :  he  said  every  flash  of  lightning  near  its 
centre  discovered  to  him  distinctly  the  form  of  a  man 
sitting  in  an  open  carriage  drawn  by  a  black  horse. 
But  in  truth  I  saw  no  such  thing.  The  man's  fancy 
was  doubtless  at  fault.  It  is  a  very  common  thing  for 
the  imagination  to  paint  for  the  senses,  both  in  the 
visible  and  invisible  world. 

In  the  mean  time  the  distant  thunder  gave  notice 
of  a  shower  at  hand  ;  and  just  as  we  reached  Policy's 
tavern  the  rain  poured  down  in  torrents.  It  was  soon 
over,  the  cloud  passing  in  the  direction  of  the  turn- 
pike towards  Providence.  In  a  few  moments  after,  a 
respectable  looking  man  in  a  chaise  stopped  at  the 
door.  The  man  and  child  in  the  chair  having  excited 
some  little  sympathy  among  the  passengers,  the  gen- 
tleman was  asked  if  he  had  observed  them.  He  said 
he  had  met  them  ;  that  the  man  seemed  bewildered, 
and  inquired  the  way  to  Boston  ;  that  he  was  driving 
at  great  speed,  as  though  he  expected  to  outstrip  the 
tempest  ;  that  the  moment  he  had  passed  him,  a 
thunder  clap  broke  directly  over  the  man's  head,  and 
seemed  to  envelope  both  man  and  child,  horse  and 
carriage.  "I  stopped,"  said  the  gentleman,  "sup- 
posing the  lightning  had  struck  him,  but  the  horse 
only  seemed  to  loom  up  and  increase  his  speed  ;  and 
as  well  as  I  could  judge,  he  travelled  just  as  fast  as 
the  thunder  cloud." 


32  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

While  this  man  was  speaking,  a  pedlar  with  a  cart 
of  tin  merchandize  came  up,  all  dripping  ;  and  on 
being  questioned,  he  said  he  had  met  that  man  and 
carriage,  within  a  fortnight,  in  four  different  states  ; 
that  at  each  time  he  had  inquired  the  way  to  Boston, 
and  that  a  thunder  shower,  like  the  present,  had  each 
time  deluged  his  wagon  and  his  wares,  setting  his  tin 
pots,  &;c.,  afloat,  so  that  he  had  determined  to  get 
marine  insurance  done  for  the  future.  But  that  which 
excited  his  surprise  most,  was  the  strange  conduct  of 
his  horse,  for  that  long  before  he  could  distinguish  the 
man  in  the  chair,  his  own  horse  stood  still  in  the  road, 
and  flung  back  his  ears.  "  In  short,"  said  the  pedlar, 
"  I  wish  never  to  see  that  man  and  horse  again  ;  they 
do  not  look  to  me  as  though  they  belonged  to  this 
world." 

This  was  all  I  could  learn  at  that  time  ;  and  the 
occurrence  soon  after  would  have  become  with  me, 
*'  like  one  of  those  things  which  had  never  happened," 
had  I  not,  as  I  stood  recently  on  the  door-step  of 
Bennett's  hotel  In  Hartford,  heard  a  man  say,  "  There 
goes  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child  !  he  looks  wet  and 
weary,  and  farther  from  Boston  than  ever."  I  was 
satisfied  it  was  the  same  man  I  had  seen  more  than 
three  years  before  ;  for  whoever  has  once  seen  Peter 
Rugg,  can  never  after  be  deceived  as  to  his  identity. 

"  Peter  Rugg  ! "  said  I,  "  and  who  is  Peter  Rugg  ? " 

"  That,"  said  the  stranger,  "  is  more  than  any  one 
can  tell  exactly.  He  is  a  famous  traveller,  held  in 
light  esteem  by  all  innholders,  for  he  never  stops  to 


PETER  RUGG. 


33 


eat,  drink  or  sleep.  I  wonder  why  tlie  government 
do  not  employ  him  to  carry  the  mail." 

"Ay,"  said  a  bystander,  "that  is  a  thought  bright 
only  on  one  side ;  how  long  would  it  take  in  that  case 
to  send  a  letter  to  Boston,  for  Peter  has  already,  to 
my  knowledge,  been  more  than  twenty  years  travelling 
to  that  place." 

"  But,"  said  T,  "  does  the  man  never  stop  any 
where ;  does  he  never  converse  with  any  one  ?  I  saw 
the  same  man  more  than  three  years  since,  near  Provi- 
dence, and  I  heard  a  strange  story  about  him.  Pray, 
sir,  give  me  some  account  of  this  man." 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  those  who  know  the 
most  respecting  that  man,  say  the  least.  I  have 
heard  it  asserted  that  heaven  sometimes  sets  a  mark 
on  a  man,  either  for  judgment  or  a  trial.  Under 
which  Peter  Rugg  now  labors,  I  cannot  say  ;  there- 
fore I  am  rather  inclined  to  pity  than  to  judge." 

"  You  speak  like  a  humane  man,"  said  I,  "  and  if 
you  have  known  him  so  long,  I  pray  you  will  give  me 
som.e  account  of  him.  Has  his  appearance  much 
altered  in  that  time  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.  He  looks  as  though  he  never  ate, 
drank  or  slept ;  and  his  child  looks  older  than  himself, 
and  he  looks  like  time  broke  off  from  eternity,  and 
anxious  to  gain  a  resting  place." 

"  And  how  does  his  horse  look  ? "  said  I. 

"  As  for  his  horse,  he  looks  fatter  and  gayer,  and 
shows  more  animation  and  courage,  than  he  did  twenty 
years  ago.     The  last  time  Rugg  spoke  to  me  he  in- 


34  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

quired  how  far  it  was  to  Boston.     I  told  him  just  one 
hundred  miles." 

"  Why,"  said  he,  "  how  can  you  deceive  me  so  ? 
it  is  cruel  to  mislead  a  traveller.  I  have  lost  my  way  ; 
pray  direct  me  the  nearest  way  to  Boston." 

I  repeated,  it  was  one  hundred  miles. 

"  How  can  you  say  so  ? "  said  he ;  "  I  w\as  told 
last  evening  it  was  but  fifty,  and  I  have  travelled  all 
night." 

^'  But,"  said  I,  "  you  are  now  travelling  from 
Boston.     You  must  turn  back." 

"  Alas,"  said  he,  "  it  is  all  turn  back  !  Boston 
shifts  with  the  wind,  and  plays  all  around  the  com- 
pass. One  man  tells  me  it  is  to  the  east,  another  to 
the  west ;  and  the  guide-posts  too,  they  all  point  the 
wrong  way." 

"  But  will  you  not  stop  and  rest,"  said  I  ;  "  you 
seem  wet  and  weary." 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "it  has  been  foul  weather  since 
I  left  home." 

"  Stop,  then,  and  refresh  yourself." 

"  I  must  not  stop  ;  I  must  reach  home  to-night,  if 
possible :  though  I  think  you  must  be  mistaken  in  the 
distance  to  Boston." 

He  then  gave  the  reins  to  his  horse,  which  he  re- 
strained with  difficulty,  and  disappeared  in  a  moment. 
A  few  days  afterwards  I  met  the  man  a  little  this 
side  of  Claremont,  winding  around  the  hills  in  Unity, 
at  the  rate,  I  believe,  of  twelve  miles  an  hour. 

"  Is  Peter  Rugg  his  real  name,  or  has  he  acci- 
dentally gained  that  name  ?  " 


PETER  RUGG.  35 

"  I  know  not,  but  presume  he  will  not  deny  bis 
name ;  you  can  ask  bim — for  see,  be  bas  turned  bis 
borse,  and  is  passing  tbis  way." 

In  a  moment,  a  dark  colored,  bigb  spirited  borse 
approacbed,  and  would  bave  passed  witbout  stop- 
ping, but  I  had  resolved  to  speak  to  Peter  Rugg,  or 
whoever  the  man  might  be.  Accordingly  I  stepped 
into  the  street,  and  as  the  borse  approached,  I  made 
a  feint  of  stopping  him.  The  man  immediately 
reined  in  his  borse.  "  Sir,"  said  I,  "  may  I  be  so 
bold  as  to  inquire  if  you  are  not  Mr.  Rugg  ?  for  I 
think  I  bave  seen  you  before." 

^^  My  name  is  Peter  Rugg,"  said  be.  "  I  bave 
unfortunately  lost  my  way  ;  I  am  wet  and  weary,  and 
will  take  it  kindly  of  you  to  direct  me  to  Boston." 

^'  You  bve  in  Boston,  do  you,  and  in  what 
street?" 

"  In  Middle  street." 

^'  When  did  you  leave  Boston  ?  " 

''  I  cannot  tell  precisely  ;  it  seems  a  considerable 
time." 

"  But  bow  did  you  and  your  child  become  so  wet  ? 
It  bas  not  rained  here  to-day." 

"  It  bas  just  rained  a  heavy  shower  up  the  river. 
But  I  shall  not  reach  Boston  to-night  if  1  tarry. 
Would  you  advise  me  to  take  the  old  road,  or  the 
turnpike  ? " 

''  Why,  the  old  road  is  one  hundred  and  seventeen 
miles,  and  the  turnpike  is  ninety-seven." 

"  How  can  you  say  so?  you  impose  on  me;  it  is 


36 


THE   BOSTON  BOOK. 


wrong  to  trifle  with  a  traveller ;  you  know  it  is  but 
forty  miles  from  Newbury  port  to  Boston.'^ 

"  But  this  is  not  Nevvburyport ;  this  is  Hartford." 

"  Do  not  deceive  me,  sir.  Is  not  this  town  New- 
bury port,  and  the  river  that  I  have  been  following, 
the  JNIerrimack  ? " 

"  No,  sir ;  this  is  Hartford,  and  the  river  the 
Connecticut." 

He  wrung  his  hands  and  looked  incredulous. 

"  Have  the  rivers,  too,  changed  their  courses,  as 
the  cities  have  changed  places  ?  But  see  I  the  clouds 
are  gathering  in  the  south,  and  we  shall  have  a  rainy 
night.     Ah,  that  fatal  oath  !  " 

He  would  tarry  no  longer;  his  impatient  horse 
leaped  off,  his  hind  flanks  rising  like  wings,  he  seemed 
to  devour  all  before  him,  and  to  scorn  all  behind. 

I  had  now,  as  I  thought,  discovered  a  clue  to  the 
history  of  Peter  Rugg,  and  I  determined,  the  next 
time  my  business  called  me  to  Boston,  to  make  a 
further  inquiry.  Soon  after,  I  was  enabled  to  collect 
the  following  particulars  from  Mrs.  Croft,  an  aged 
lady  in  Middle  street,  who  has  resided  in  Boston 
during  the  last  twenty  years.     Her  narration  is  this  : 

The  last  summer,  a  person,  just  at  twilight,  stop- 
ped at  the  door  of  the  late  Mrs.  Rugg.  Mrs.  Croft, 
on  coming  to  the  door,  perceived  a  stranger,  with  a 
child  by  his  side,  in  an  old  weather-beaten  carriage, 
with  a  black  horse.  The  stranger  asked  for  Mrs. 
Rugg,  and  was  informed  that  Mrs.  Rugg  had  died  m 
a  good  old  age,  more  than  twenty  years  before  that 
time. 


PETER  RUGG.  37 

^    The  stranger  replied,  "  How  can  you  deceive  me 
so  ?  do  ask  I\Irs.  Rugg  to  step  to  the  door." 

''  Sir,  I  assure  you  Mrs.  Rugg  has  not  lived  here 
these  nineteen  years  ;  no  one  lives  here  but  myself, 
and  my  name  is  Betsey  Croft." 

The  stranger  paused,  and  looked  up  and  down  the 
street,  and  said — "  Though  the  painting  is  rather 
faded,  this  looks  like  my  house." 

'^  Yes,"  said  the  child,  "  that  is  the  stone  before 
the  door  that  I  used  to  sit  on  to  eat  my  bread  and 
milk." 

'•  But,"  said  the  stranger,  ''  it  seems  to  be  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  street.  Indeed,  every  thing  here 
seems  to  be  misplaced.  The  streets  are  all  changed, 
the  people  are  all  changed,  the  town  seems  changed, 
and  what  is  strangest  of  all,  Catherine  Rugg  has 
deserted  her  husband  and  child.  Pray,"  continued 
the  stranger,  ^'has  John  Foy  come  home  from  sea? 
He  went  a  long  voyage ;  he  is  my  kinsman.  If  I 
could  see  him,  he  could  give  me  some  account  of 
Mrs.  Rugg." 

^'  Sir,"  said  Mrs.  Croft,  "  I  never  heard  of  John 
Foy.     Where  did  he  live  ?  " 

"  Just  above  here,  in  Orange  Tree  lane." 

''  There  is  no  such  place  in  this  neighborhood." 

"  What  do  you  tell  me !  Are  the  streets  gone  ? 
Orange  Tree  lane  is  at  the  head  of  Hanover  street, 
near  Pemberton's  Hill." 

"  There  is  no  such  lane  now." 

*'  Madam  !    you    cannot    be    serious.      But   you 
4 


38  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

doubtless  know  my  brother,  William  Rugg.  He 
lives  in  Royal  Exchange  lane,  near  King  street." 

^'  I  know  of  no  such  lane ;  and  I  am  sure  there 
is  no  such  street  as  King  street  in  this  town." 

"  No  such  street  as  King  street  !  Why,  wo- 
man !  you  mock  me.  You  may  as  well  tell  me 
there  is  no  King  George.  However,  madam,  you 
see  I  am  wet  and  weary,  I  must  find  a  resting  place. 
I  will  go  to  Hart's  tavern,  near  the  market." 

"  Which  market,  sir  ?  for  you  seem  perplexed  ; 
we  have  several  markets." 

"  You  know  there  is  but  one  market  near  the 
Town  dock." 

"  Oh,  the  old  market ;  but  no  such  person  has 
kept  there  these  twenty  years." 

Here  the  stranger  seemed  disconcerted,  and  uttered 
to  himself  quite  audibly — "  Strange  mistake,  how 
much  this  looks  like  the  town  of  Boston  !  It  cer- 
tainly has  a  great  resemblance  to  it ;  but  I  perceive 
my  mistake  now.  Some  other  Mrs.  Rugg,  some 
other  Middle  street." 

"  Then,"  said  he,  "  madam,  can  you  direct  me  to 
Boston?" 

"  Why,  this  is  Boston,  the  city  of  Boston  j  I 
know  of  no  other  Boston." 

"  City  of  Boston  it  may  be  ;  but  It  is  not  the 
Boston  where  I  live.  I  recollect  now,  I  came  over 
a  bridge  instead  of  a  ferry.  Pray,  what  bridge  is 
that  I  just  came  over  ?  " 

"  It  is  Charles  River  bridge." 


PETER  RUGG.  39 

"  I  perceive  my  mistake  ;  there  is  a  ferry  between 
Boston  and  Charlestown  ;  there  is  no  bridge.  Ah,  I 
perceive  my  mistake.  If  I  were  in  Boston  my  horse 
would  carry  me  directly  to  my  own  door.  But  my 
horse  shows,  by  his  impatience,  that  he  is  in  a  strange 
place.  Absurd,  that  I  should  have  mistaken  this 
place  for  the  old  town  of  Boston  !  it  is  a  much  finer 
city  than  the  town  of  Boston.  It  has  been  built  long 
since  Boston.  I  fancy  it  must  lie  at  a  distance  from 
this  city,  as  the  good  woman  seems  ignorant  of  it." 

At  these  words  his  horse  began  to  chafe,  and  strike 
the  pavement  with  his  fore  feet.  The  stranger  seemed 
a  little  bewildered,  and  said,  "  no  home  to-night ;" 
and  giving  the  reins  to  his  horse,  passed  up  the  street, 
and  I  saw  no  more  of  him. 

It  was  evident  that  the  generation  to  which  Peter 
Rugg  belonged,  had  passed  away. 

This  was  all  the  account  of  Peter  Rugg  I  could 
obtain  from  Mrs.  Croft ;  but  she  directed  me  to  an 
elderly  man,  Mr.  James  Felt,  who  lived  near  her, 
and  who  had  kept  a  record  of  the  principal  occur- 
rences for  the  last  fifty  years.  At  my  request,  she 
sent  for  him  ;  and,  after  I  had  related  to  him  the  ob- 
ject of  my  inquiiy,  Mr.  Felt  told  me  he  had  known 
Rugg  in  his  youth  ;  that  his  disappearance  had  caused 
some  surprise  ;  but  as  it  sometimes  happens  that  men 
run  away,  sometimes  to  be  rid  of  others,  and  some- 
times to  be  rid  of  themselves  ;  and  Rugg  took  his 
child  with  him,  and  his  own  horse  and  chair  ;  and  as 
k  did  not  appear  that  any  creditors  made  a  stir,  the 


40  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

occurrence  soon  mingled  itself  in  the  stream  of  ob- 
livion ;  and  Rugg  and  bis  cbiid,  horse  and  chair, 
were  soon  forgotten. 

^'  It  is  true,"  said  Mr.  Felt,  ''  sundry  stories  grew 
out  of  Rugg's  aftair,  whether  true  or  false  I  cannot 
tell ;  but  stranger  things  have  happened  in  my  day, 
without  even  a  newspaper  notice." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  Peter  Rugg  is  now  living.  I  have 
lately  seen  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child,  horse  and  chair ; 
therefore,  I  pray  you  to  relate  to  m.e  all  you  know  or 
ever  beard  of  him." 

''  Why,  my  friend,"  said  James  Felt,  ''  that  Peter 
Rugg  is  now  a  living  man,  I  will  not  deny  ;  but  that 
you  have  seen  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child,  is  impos- 
sible, if  you  mean  a  small  child ;  for  Jenny  Rugg,  if 
living,  must  be  at  least — let  me  see — Boston  mas- 
sacre, 1770 — Jenny  Rugg  was  about  ten  years  old. 
Why,  sir,  Jenny  Rugg,  if  living,  must  be  more  than 
sixty  years  of  age.  That  Peter  Rugg  is  living,  is 
highly  probable,  as  he  was  only  ten  years  older  than 
myself;  and  I  was  only  eighty  last  March  ;  and  I  am 
as  likely  to  live  twenty  years  longer  as  any  man." 

Here  I  perceived  that  Mr.  Felt  was  in  his  dotage, 
and  I  despaired  of  gaining  any  intelligence  from  him, 
on  which  1  could  depend. 

I  took  my  leave  of  Mrs.  Croft,  and  proceeded  to 
my  lodgings  at  the  Marlborough  Hotel. 

If  Peter  Rugg,  thought  I,,  lias  been  travelling  since 
the  Boston  massacre,  there  is  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  travel  to  the  end  of  time.     If  the  present 


PETER  RUGG.  4X 

generation  know  little  of  bim,  the  next  will  know 
less,  and  Peter  and  his  child  will  have  no  hold  on 
this  world. 

In  the  course  of  the  evening,  I  related  my  adven- 
ture in  Middle  street. 

"  Ha ! "  said  one  of  the  company,  smiling,  "  do 
you  really  think  you  have  seen  Peter  Rugg  ?  I.  have 
heard  my  grandfather  speak  of  him,  as  though  he 
seriously  believed  his  own  story." 

"  Sir,"  said  I,  "  pray  let  us  compare  your  grand- 
father's story  of  Mr.  Rugg  with  my  own." 

*'  Peter  Rugg,  sir,  if  my  grandfather  was  worthy  of 
credit,  once  lived  in  Middle  street,  in  this  city.  He 
was  a  man  in  comfortable  circumstances  ;  had  a  wife 
and  one  daughter,  and  was  generally  esteemed  for  his 
sober  life  and  manners.  But  unhappily,  his  temper, 
at  times,  was  altogether  ungovernable,  and  then  his 
language  was  terrible.  In  these  fits  of  passion,  if  a 
door  stood  in  his  way,  he  would  never  do  less  than 
kick  a  pannel  through.  He  would  sometimes  throw 
his  heels  over  his  head,  and  come  down  on  his  feet, 
uttering  oaths  in  a  circle  ;  and  thus  in  a  rage,  he  was 
the  first  who  performed  a  somerset,  and  did  what 
others  have  since  learned  to  do  for  merriment  and 
money.  Once  Rugg  was  seen  to  bite  a  tenpenny 
nail  in  halves.  In  those  days,  every  body,  both  men 
and  boys,  wore  wigs  ;  and  Peter,  at  these  moments 
of  violent  passion,  would  become  so  profane  that  his 
wig  would  rise  up  from  his  head.  Some  said  it  was 
on  account  of  his  terrible  language.  Others  accounted 
4* 


42  THE  BOSTON  BOOK, 

for  it  in  a  more  philosophical  way,  and  said  it  was 
caused  by  the  expansion  of  his  scalp  ;  as  violent  pas- 
sion, we  know,  will  swell  the  veins  and  expand  the 
head.  While  these  fits  were  on  him,  Rugg  had  no 
respect  for  heaven  or  earth.  Except  this  infirmity,  all 
agreed  that  Rugg  was  a  good  sort  of  a  man  ;  for  when 
bis  fits  weve  over,  nobody  was  so  ready  to  commend  a 
placid  temper  as  Peter. 

"  It  was  late  in  autumn,  one  morning,  that  Rugg, 
in  his  own  chair,  with  a  fine  large  bay  horse,  took  his 
daughter  and  proceeded  to  Concord.  On  his  return, 
a  violent  storm  overtook  him.  At'  dark,  he  stopped 
in  Menotomy,  now  West  Cambridge,  at  the  door  of  a 
Mr.  Cutter,  a  friend  of  his,  who  urged  him  to  tarry 
the  night.  On  Rugg's  declining  to  stop,  Mr.  Cutter 
urged  him  vehemently.  '  Why,  Mr.  Rugg,'  said 
Cutter,  '  the  storm  is  overwhelming  you  ;  the  night 
is  exceeding  dark  :  your  little  daughter  will  perish  ; 
you  are  in  an  open  chair,  and  the  tempest  is  increas- 
ino".'  '  Let  the  storm  increase,^  said  Ruo-o-  with  a 
fearful  oath,  '  I  ivill  see  home  to-night,  in  sjiite  of 
the  last  temjjest !  or  may  I  never  see  homeJ'  At  these 
words  he  gave  his  whip  to  his  high-spirited  horse, 
and  disappeared  in  a  moment.  But  Peter  Rugg  did 
not  reach  home  that  night,  nor  the  next  ;  nor,  when 
he  became  a  missing  man,  coidd  he  ever  be  traced 
beyond  Mr.  Cutter's,  in  Menotomy. 

"  For  a  long  time  after,  on  every  dark  and  stormy 
night,  the  wife  of  Peter  Rugg  would  fancy  she  heard 
the  crack  of  a  whip,  and  the  fleet  tread  of  a  horse, 


PETER  RUGG.  43 

and  the  rattling  of  a  carnage,  passing  her  door.  The 
neighbors,  too,  heard  the  same  noises,  and  some  said 
they  knew  it  was  Rugg's  horse  ;  the  tread  on  the 
pavement  was  perfectly  familiar  to  them.  This  occur- 
red so  repeatedly,  that  at  length  the  neighbors  watched 
with  lanterns,  and  saw  the  real  Peter  Rugg,  with  his 
own  horse  and  chair,  and  child  sitting  beside  him,  pass 
directly  before  his  own  door,  his  head  turned  towards 
his  house,  and  himself  making  every  effort  to  stop  his 
horse,  but  in  vain. 

''  The  next  day,  the  friends  of  Mrs.  Rugg  exerted 
themselves  to  find  her  husband  and  child.  They 
inquired  at  every  public  house  and  stable  In  town; 
but  It  did  not  appear  that  Rugg  made  any  stay  In 
Boston.  No  one,  after  Rugg  had  passed  his  own 
door,  could  give  any  account  of  him  ;  though  It  was 
asserted  by  some  that  the  clatter  of  Rugg's  horse  and 
carriage  over  the  pavements  shook  the  houses  on 
both  sides  of  the  streets.  And  this  is  credible,  if 
indeed  Rugg's  horse  and  carriage  did  pass  on  that 
night.  For  at  this  day,  in  many  of  the  streets,  a 
loaded  truck  or  team,  in  passing,  wHl  sbake  the 
houses  like  an  earthquake.  However,  Rugg's  neigh- 
bors never  afterwards  watched  ;  some  of  them  treated 
it  all  as  a  delusion,  and  thought  no  more  of  It.  Oth- 
ers, of  a  different  opinion,  shook  their  heads  and  said 
nothing. 

"  Thus  Rugg,  and  his  child,  horse  and  chair,  w^ere 
soon  forgotten  ;  and  probably  many  in  the  neighbor- 
hood never  heard  a  word  on  the  subject. 


44  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  There  was  indeed  a  rumor,  that  Rugg  afterwards 
was  seen  in  Connecticut,  between  Suffield  and  Hart- 
ford, passing  through  the  country  with  headlong  speed. 
This  gave  occasion  to  Rugg's  friends  to  make  further 
inquiry.  But  the  'more  they  inquired,  the  more  they 
were  baffled.  If  they  heard  of  Rugg  one  day  in 
Connecticut — the  next,  they  heard  of  him  winding 
round  the  hills  in  New  Hampshire  ;  and  soon  after,  a 
man  in  a  chair,  w^ith  a  small  child,  exactly  answering 
the  description  of  Peter  Rugg,  would  be  seen  in 
Rhode  Island,  inquiring  the  w^ay  to  Boston. 

"  But  that  which  chiefly  gave  a  color  of  mystery  to 
the  story  of  Peter  Rugg,  was  the  affair  at  Charles- 
town  bridge.  The  toll-gatherer  asserted  that  some- 
times, on  the  darkest  and  most  stormy  nights,  when 
no  object  could  be  discerned,  about  the  time  Rugg 
was  missing,  a  horse  and  wheel  carriage,  with  a  noise 
equal  to  a  troop,  would  at  midnight,  in  utter  contempt 
of  the  rates  of  toll,  pass  over  the  bridge.  This  occur- 
red so  frequently,  that  the  toll-gatherer  resolved  to 
attempt  a  discovery.  Soon  after,  at  the  usual  time, 
apparently  the  same  horse  and  carriage  approached 
the  bridge  from  Charlestown  square.  The  toll- 
gatherer,  prepared,  took  his  stand  as  near  the  middle 
of  the  bridge  as  he  dared,  with  a  large  three-legged 
stool  in  his  hand.  As  the  appearance  passed,  he 
threw  the  stool  at  the  horse,  but  heard  nothing, 
except  the  noise  of  the  stool  skipping  across  the 
bridge.  The  toll-gatherer,  on  the  next  day,  asserted 
that  the  stool  went  directly  through  the  body  of  the 


PETER  RUGG.  45 

horse ;  and  he  persisted  in  that  belief  ever  after. 
Whether  Rugg,  or  whoever  the  person  was,  ever 
passed  the  bridge  again,  the  toll-gatherer  would  never 
tell — and  when  questioned,  seemed  anxious  to  waive 
the  subject.  And  thus,  Peter  Rugg  and  his  child;, 
horse  and  carriage,  remain  a  mystery  to  this  day." 

This,  sir,  is  all  that  I  could  learn  of  Peter  Rugg, 
in  Boston. 


FURTHER    ACCOUNT    OF    PETER    RUGG,    BY    JONATHAN 
DUNWELL. 

In  the  autumn  of  1825,  I  attended  the  races  at 
Richmond  in  Virginia.  As  two  new  horses  of  great 
promise  were  run,  the  race  ground  was  never  better 
attended,  nor  was  expectation  ever  more  deeply  ex- 
cited. The  partisans  of  Dart  and  Lightning,  the  two 
race  horses,  were  equally  anxious,  and  equally  dubious 
of  the  result.  To  an  indifferent  spectator,  it  was 
impossible  to  perceive  any  difference.  They  were 
equally  beautiful  to  behold,  alike  in  color  and  height, 
and  as  they  stood  side  by  side,  they  measured  from 
heel  to  fore  feet  within  half  an  inch  of  each  other. 
The  eyes  of  each  were  full,  prominent  and  resolute  ; 
and  when  at  times  they  regarded  each  other,  they 
assumed  a  lofty  demeanor,  seemed  to  shorten  their 
necks,  project  their  eyes,  and  rest  their  bodies  equally 
on  their  four  hoofs.     They  certainly  discovered  signs 


46  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

of  intelligence,  and  displayed  a  courtesy  to  each  other, 
unusual  even  with  statesmen. 

It  was  now  nearly  12  o'clock,  the  hour  of  expec- 
tation, doubt  and  anxiety.  The  riders  mounted  their 
horses  ;  and  so  trim,  light  and  airy  they  sat  on  the 
animals,  they  seemed  a  part  of  them.  The  specta- 
tors, many  deep,  in  a  solid  column,  had  taken  their 
places  ;  and  as  many  thousand  breathing  statues  were 
there  as  spectators.  All  eyes  were  turned  to  Dart 
and  Lightning,  and  their  two  fairy  riders.  There 
was  nothing  to  disturb  this  calm,  except  a  busy  wood- 
pecker on  a  neighboring  tree.  The  signal  was  given, 
and  Dart  and  Lightning  answered  the  signal  with 
ready  intelligence.  At  first  they  proceed  on  a  slow 
trot,  then  they  quicken  to  a  canter,  and  then  a  gallop. 
Presently  they  sweep  the  plain;  both  horses  lay 
themselves  flat  on  the  ground,  their  riders  bending 
forward,  and  resting  their  chins  between  their  horses' 
ears.  Had  not  the  ground  been  perfectly  level,  had 
there  been  any  undulation,  the  least  rise  and  fall,  the 
spectator,  every  moment,  for  a  moment,  would  have 
lost  sight  of  both  horses  and  riders. 

While  these  horses,  side  by  side,  thus  appeared, 
flying  without  wings,  flat  as  a  hare,  and  neither  gained 
on  the  other,  all  eyes  were  diverted  to  a  new  spec- 
tacle. Directly  in  the  rear  of  Dart  and  Lightning,  a 
majestic  black  horse,  of  unusual  size,  drawing  an  old 
weather-beaten  chair,  strode  over  the  plain ;  and, 
althoLigli  he  appeared  to  make  no  effort,  for  he  main- 
tained a  steady  trot,  before  Dart  and  Lightning  ap- 


PETER  RUGG.  47 

proached  the  goal,  the  black  horse  and  chair  had 
overtaken  the  racers,  who,  on  perceiving  this  new 
competitor  pass  them,  threw  back  their  ears,  and  sud- 
denly stopped  in  their  course.  Thus  neither  Dart  nor 
Lightning  carried  away  the  purse. 

The  spectators  now  were  exceedingly  curious  to 
learn  whence  came  the  black  horse  and  chair.  With 
many  it  was  the  opinion  that  nobody  was  in  the  vehi- 
cle. Indeed,  this  began  to  be  the  prevalent  opinion, 
for  those  at  a  short  distance,  so  fleet  was  the  black 
horse,  could  not  easily  discern  who,  if  any  body,  was 
in  the  carriage.  But  both  the  riders,  whom  the  black 
horse  passed  very  nearly,  agreed  in  this  particular, 
that  a  sad  looking  man,  with  a  little  girl,  was  in  the 
chair.  When  they  stated  this,  I  was  satisfied  it  was 
Peter  Rugg.  But  what  caused  no  little  surprise, 
John  Spring,  one  of  the  riders,  he  who  rode  Lightning, 
asserted  that  no  earthly  horse,  without  breaking  his 
trot,  could,  in  a  carriage,  outstrip  his  race  horse  :  and 
he  persisted  with  some  passion,  that  it  was  not  a 
horse,  he  was  sure  it  was  not  a  horse,  but  a  large  black 
ox.  "  What  a  great  black  ox  can  do,"  said  John, 
*'  I  cannot  pretend  to  say  ;  but  no  race  horse,  not 
even  Flying  Childers,  could  out-trot  Lightning  in  a 
fair  race." 

This  opinion  of  John  Spring  excited  no  little  mer- 
riment, for  it  was  clearly  obvious  to  every  one,  that  it 
was  a  powerful  black  horse  that  interrupted  the  race ; 
but  John  Spring,  jealous  of  Lightning's  reputation  as 
a  horse,  would  rather  have  it  thought  that  any  other 


48  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

beast,  even  an  ox,  had  been  the  victor.  However, 
the  horse-laugh,  at  John  Spring's  expense  was  soon 
suppressed  ;  for  as  soon  as  Dart  and  Lightning  began 
to  breathe  more  freely,  it  was  observed  that  both  of 
them  w^alked  deliberately  to  the  tract  of  the  race 
ground,  and  putting  their  heads  to  the  earth,  they 
suddenly  raised  them  again,  and  began  to  snort. 
They  repeated  this,  till  John  Spring  said,  "  These 
horses  have  discovered  something  strange  ;  they  sus- 
pect foul  play  ;  let  me  go  and  talk  with  Lightning." 

And  he  went  up  to  Lightning  and  took  hold  of 
his  mane ;  and  Lightning  put  his  nose  toward  the 
ground,  and  smelt  of  the  earth  without  touching  it, 
and  then  reared  his  head  very  high,  and  snorted  so 
loudly,  that  the  sound  echoed  from  the  next  hill. 
Dart  did  the  same.  John  Spring  stooped  down  to 
examine  the  spot  where  Lightning  smelt.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  raised  himself  up,  and  the  countenance  of 
the  man  was  changed  ;  his  strength  failed  him,  and 
be  sidled  against  Lightning. 

At  length  John  Spring  recovered  from  his  stupor, 
and  exclaimed,  ^'  It  was  an  ox  !  I  told  you  it  was  an 
ox  ;  no  real  horse  ever  yet  beat  Lightning.'^ 

And  now,  on  a  close  inspection  of  the  black  horse's 
tracks  in  the  path,  it  w^as  evident  to  every  one,  that 
the  fore  feet  of  the  black  horse  were  cloven.  Not- 
withstanding these  appearances,  to  me  it  was  evident 
that  the  strange  horse  was  in  reality  a  horse.  Yet 
when  the  people  left  the  race  ground,  I  presume  one 
half  of  all  those  present,  would  have  testified  that  a 


PETER  RUGG.  49 

large  black  ox  had  distanced  two  of  the  fleetest 
coursers  that  ever  trod  the  Virginia  turf.  So  uncer- 
tain are  all  things  called  historical  facts. 

While  I  was  proceeding  to  my  lodgings,  pondering 
on  the  events  of  the  day,  a  stranger  rode  up  to  me, 
and  accosted  me  thus — "  I  thinkTyour  name  is  Dun- 
well,  sir  ? " 

''  Yes,  sir,"  I  replied. 

"  Did  I  not  see  you  a  year  or  two  since  in  Boston, 
at  the  Marlborough  Hotel  ?  " 

"  Very  likely,  sir,  for  I  was  there." 

"And  you  heard  a  story  about  one  Peter  Rugg?" 

''  I  recollect  it  all,"  said  I. 

''The  account  you  heard  in  Boston  must  be  true, 
for  here  he  was  to-day.  The  man  has  found  his 
way  to  Virginia,  and  for  aught  that  appears,  has  been 
to  Cape  Horn.  I  have  seen  him  before  to-day,  but 
never  saw  him  travel  with  such  fearful  velocity. 
Pray,  sir,  where  does  Peter  Rugg  spend  his  winters  ? 
for  I  have  seen  him  only  in  summer,  and  always  in 
foul  weather,  except  at  this  time." 

I  replied,  "  No  one  knows  where  Peter  Rugg 
spends  his  winters  ;  where  or  when  he  eats,  drinks, 
sleeps  or  lodges.  He  seems  to  have  an  indistinct 
idea  of  day  and  night,  time  and  space,  storm  and  sun- 
shine. His  only  object  is  Boston.  It  appears  to  me 
that  Rugg's  horse  has  some  control  of  the  chair  ; 
and  that  Rugg  himself  is,  in  some  sort,  under  the  con- 
trol of  his  horse." 

I  then  inquired  of  the  stranger,  where  he  first  saw 
the  man  and  horse. 
5 


50  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  Why,  sir,"  said  he,  "  in  the  summer  of  1824^ 
I  travelled  to  the  North  for  my  health  ;  and  soon  after 
I  saw  you  at  the  Marlborough  Hotel,  I  returned 
homeward  to  Virginia,  and,  if  my  memory  is  correct, 
I  saw  this  man  and  horse  in  every  state  between  here 
and  Massachusetts.  Sometimes  he  would  meet  me, 
but  oftener  overtake  me.  He  never  spoke  but  once, 
and  that  once  was  in  Delaware.  On  his  approach, 
he  checked  his  horse  with  some  difficulty.  A  more 
beautiful  horse  I  never  saw  ;  his  hide  was  as  foir,  and 
rotund,  and  glossy  as  the  skin  of  a  Congo  beauty. 
When  Rugg's  horse  approached  mine,  he  reined  in 
his  neck,  bent  his  ears  forward  until  they  met,  and 
looked  my  horse  full  in  the  face.  My  horse  imme- 
diately withered  into  half  a  horse;  his  hide  curled  up 
like  a  piece  of  burnt  leather ;  spell-bound,  he  was 
fixed  to  the  earth  as  though  a  nail  had  been  driven 
through  each  hoof. 

"  '  Sir,'  said  Rugg,  ^  perhaps  you  are  travelling 
to  Boston  ;  and  if  so,  I  should  be  happy  to  accompany 
you,  for  I  have  lost  my  way,  and  I  must  reach  home 
to-night.  See  how  sleepy  this  little  girl  looks ;  poor 
thing,  she  is  a  picture  of  patience.' 

" '  Sir,'  said  I,  '  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  reach 
home  to-night,  for  you  are  in  Concord,  in  the  county 
of  Sussex,  in  the  state  of  Delaware.' 

"  '  What  do  you  mean,'  said  he,  '  by  state  of  Dela- 
ware ?  If  I  was  in  Concord,  that  is  only  twenty 
miles  from  Boston,  and  my  horse  Lightfoot  could 
carry   me    to    Charlestown    ferry    in    less    than   two 


PETER  RUGG.  5I 

hours.  You  mistake,  sir;  you  are  a  stranger  here; 
this  town  is  nothing  hke  Concord.  I  am  well  ac- 
quainted with  Concord.  I  went  to  Concord  when  I 
left  Boston.' 

"  '  But,'  said  I,  '  you  are  in  Concord,  in  the  state 
of  Delaware.' 

*' '  AVhat  do  you  mean  by  state,'  said  Rugg. 

*^  ^  Why,  one  of  the  United  States.' 

'•'  ^  States  !'  said  he,  in  a  low  voice ;  '  the  man  is  a 
wag,  and  would  persuade  me  I  am  in  Holland.' 
Then  raising  his  voice,  he  said,  *  You  seem,  sir,  to  be 
a  gentleman,  and  I  entreat  you  to  mislead  me  not ; 
tell  me,  quickly,  for  pity's  sake,  the  right  road  to 
Boston,  for  you  see  my  hoi'se  will  swallow  his  bits  ; 
for  he  has  eaten  nothing  since  I  left  Concord.' 

''  '  Sir,'  said  I,  '  this  town  is  Concord,  Concord  in 
Delaware,  not  Concord  in  Massachusetts  ;  and  you 
are  now  five  hundred  miles  from  Boston.' 

"  Rut^"  looked  at  me  for  a  moment,  more  in  sor- 
row  than  resentment,  and  then  repeated,  '  five  hun- 
dred miles  !  unhappy  man,  who  would  have  thought 
he  had  been  deranged  ;  but  nothing  is  so  deceitful  as 
appearances,  in  this  world.  Five  hundred  miles ! 
this  beats  Connecticut  river.' 

"  What  he  meant  by  Connecticut  river,  I  know 
not ;  his  horse  broke  away,  and  Rugg  disappeared  in 
a  moment." 

I  explained  to  the  stranger  the  meaning  of  Rugg's 
expression,  "  Connecticut  river,"  and  the  incident 
respecting  him,  that  occurred  at  Hartford,  as  I  stood 


52  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

on  the  door  stone  of  Mr.  Bennett's  excellent  hotel. 
We  both  agreed  that  the  man  we  had  seen  that  day 
was  the  true  Peter  Ruo^cr. 

Soon  after,  I  saw  Rngg  again,  at  the  toll-gate  on 
the  turnpike  between  Alexandria  and  Middleburgh. 
While  I  was  paying  the  toll,  I  observed  to  the  toll- 
gatherer,  that  the  drought  was  more  severe  in  his 
vicinity  than  farther  south. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  ''  the  drought  is  excessive  ;  but 
if  I  had  not  heard  yesterday,  by  a  traveller,  that  the 
man  with  the  black  horse  was  seen  in  Kentucky  a 
day  or  two  since,  I  should  be  sure  of  a  shower  in  a 
few  minutes." 

"I  looked  all  around  the  horizon,  and  could  not 
discern  a  cloud  that  could  hold  a  pint  of  water. 

"  Look,  sir,"  said  the  toll-gatherer,  "  you  per- 
ceive to  the  eastward,  just  rising  that  hill,  a  small 
black  cloud  not  bigger  than  a  blackberry,  and  while  I 
am  speaking  it  is  doubling  and  trebling  itself,  and 
rolling  up  the  turnpike  steadily,  as  if  its  sole  design 
was  to  deluge  some  object." 

"  True,"  said  I,  "  I  do  perceive  it ;  but  what  con- 
nexion is  there  between  a  thunder  cloud  and  a  man 
and  horse  ?" 

"  More  than  you  imagine,  or  I  can  tell  you  ; — but 
stop  a  moment,  sir,  I  may  need  your  assistance.  I 
know  that  cloud  ;  I  have  seen  it  several  times  before, 
and  can  testify  to  its  identity.  You  will  soon  see  a 
man  and  black  horse  under  it." 

While  he  was  speaking,  true  enough,  we  began  to 


PETER  RUGG.  53 

hear  the  distant  thunder,  and  soon  the  chain  lightning 
performed  all  the  figures  of  a  country  dance.  About 
a  mile  distant,  we  saw  the  man  and  black  horse  under 
the  cloud  ;  but  before  he  arrived  at  the  toll-gate,  the 
thunder  cloud  had  spent  itself,  and  not  even  a  sprinkle 
fell  near  us. 

As  the  man,  whom  I  instantly  knew  to  be  Rugg, 
attempted  to  pass,  the  toll-gatherer  swung  the  gate 
across  the  road,  seized  Rugg's  horse  by  the  reins,  and 
demanded  two  dollars. 

Feeling  some  little  regard  for  Rugg,  I  interfered, 
and  began  to  question  the  toll-gatherer,  and  requested 
him  not  to  be  wroth  with  the  man. 

The  toll-gatherer  replied  he  had  just  cause,  for  the 
man  had  run  his  toll  ten  times,  and  moreover  that 
the  horse  had  discharged  a  cannon  ball  at  him,  to  the 
great  danger  of  his  life  ;  that  the  man  had  always  be- 
fore approached  so  rapidly  that  he  was  too  quick  for 
the  rusty  hinges  of  the  toll-gate  ;  but  that  now  he 
would  have  full  satisfiction. 

Rugg  looked  wistfully  at  me,  and  said,  ''  I  entreat 
you,  sir,  to  delay  me  not :  I  have  found  at  length  the 
direct  road  to  Boston,  and  shall  not  reach  home  before 
night  if  you  detain  me  :  you  see  I  am  dripping  wet, 
and  ought  to  change  my  clothes." 

The  toll-gatherer  then  demanded  why  he  had  run 
his  toll  so  many  times  ? 

"  Toll  !  why,"  said  Rugg,  "  do  you  demand  toll  ? 
There  is  no  toll  to  pay  on  the  king's  highway." 

"  King's  highway  !  do  you  not  perceive  this  is  a 
turnpike  ?" 

5* 


54  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  Turnpike  1  there  are  no  turnpikes  in  Massachu- 
setts." 

'^  That  may  be,  but  we  have  several  in  Virginia." 

*'  Virginia  !  do  you  pretend  I  am  in  Virginia?" 

Rugg  tlien  appealing  to  me,  asked  how  far  it  was 
to  Boston  ? 

Said  I,  "  Mr.  Rugg,  I  perceive  you  are  bewil- 
dered, and  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  far  from  home  ; 
you  are,  indeed,  in  Virginia." 

"  You  know  me,  then,  sir,  it  seems  ;  and  you  say 
I  am  in  Virginia.  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  sir,  you 
are  the  most  impudent  man  alive ;  for  I  was  never 
forty  miles  from  Boston,  and  I  never  saw  a  Virginian 
in  my  life.     This  beats  Delaware  !  " 

"Your  toll,  sir,  your  toll!" 

"  I  will  not  pay  you  a  penny,"  said  Rugg;  "you 
are  both  of  you  highway  robbers  ;  there  are  no  turn- 
pikes in  this  country.  Take  toll  on  the  king's  high- 
way !  Robbers  take  toll  on  the  king's  highway." 
Then  in  a  low  tone,  he  said,  "here  is  evidently  a 
conspiracy  against  me  ;  alas,  I  shall  never  see  Boston  ! 
The  highways  refuse  me  a  passage,  the  rivers  change 
their  courses,  and  there  is  no  faiih  in  the  compass." 

But  Rugg's  horse  had  no  idea  of  stopping  more 
than  one  minute,  for  in  the  midst  of  this  altercation, 
the  horse,  whose  nose  was  resting  on  the  upper  bar 
of  the  turnpike  gate,  seized  it  between  his  teeth,  lifted 
it  gently  off  its  staples,  and  trotted  off  with  it.  The 
toll-gatherer,  confounded,  strained  his  eyes  after  his 


PETER  RUGG.  55 

"  Let  him  go,"  said  I,  ^'  the  horse  will  soon  drop 
your  gate,  and  you  will  get  it  again." 

I  then  questioned  the  toll-gatherer  respecting  his 
knowledge  of  this  man  ;  and  he  related  the  following 
particulars  : 

"  The  first  time,"  said  he,  "  that  man  ever  passed 
this  toll-gate  was  in  the  year  1806,  at  the  moment  of 
the  great  eclipse.  I  thought  the  horse  was  fright- 
ened at  the  sudden  darkness,  and  concluded  he  had 
run  away  with  the  man.  But  within  a  few  days 
after,  the  same  man  and  horse  repassed  with  equal 
speed,  without  the  least  respect  to  the  toll-gate  or  to 
me,  except  by  a  vacant  stare.  Some  few  years  after- 
ward, during  the  late  war,  I  saw  the  same  man  ap- 
proaching again,  and  I  resolved  to  check  his  career. 
Accordingly  I  stepped  into  the  middle  of  the  road, 
and  stretched  wide  both  my  arms,  and  cried,  slop,  sir, 
on  your  peril  1  At  this,  the  man  said,  '  Now  Light- 
foot,  confound  the  robber ! '  at  the  same  time,  he 
gave  the  whip  liberally  to  the  flank  of  his  horse,  who 
bounded  off  with  such  force,  that  it  appeared  to  me, 
two  such  horses,  give  them  a  place  to  stand,  would 
check  the  diurnal  motion  of  the  earth.  An  ammuni- 
tion wagon  which  had  just  passed  on  to  Baltimore, 
had  dropped  an  eighteen  pounder  in  the  road  ;  this 
unlucky  ball  lay  in  the  way  of  the  horse's  heels,  and 
the  beast,  with  the  sagacity  of  a  demon,  clenched  it 
with  one  of  his  heels,  and  hurled  it  behind  him.  I 
feel  dizzy  in  relating  the  fact,  but  so  nearly  did  the 
ball  pass  my  head,  that  the  wind  thereof  blew  off  my 


56 


THE   BOSTON  BOOK. 


hat,  and  the  ball  bedded  itself  in  that  gate  post,  as 
you  may  see,  if  you  will  cast  your  eye  to  the  post. 
I  have  permitted  it  to  remain  there  in  memory  of  the 
occurrence,  as  the  people  of  Boston,  I  am  told,  pre- 
serve the  eighteen  pounder,  which  is  now  to  be  seen 
half  bedded  in  Brattle  street  church." 

I  then  took  leave  of  the  toll-gatherer,  and  prom- 
ised him,  if  1  saw  or  heard  of  his  gate,  I  would  send 
him  notice. 

A  strong  inclination  had  possessed  me  to  arrest 
Rugg,  and  search  his  pockets,  thinking  great  discove- 
ries might  be  made  in  the  examination  ;  but  what  I 
saw  and  heard  that  day  convinced  me  that  no  human 
force  could  detain  Peter  Rugg  against  his  consent. 
I  therefore  determined  if  I  ever  saw  Rugg  again  to 
treat  him  in  the  gentlest  manner. 

In  pursuing  my  way  to  New  York,  I  entered  on 
the  turnpike  in  Trenton  ;  and  when  I  arrived  at  New 
Brunswick,  I  perceived  the  road  was  newly  PvIcAdam- 
ized.  The  small  stones  had  just  been  laid  thereon. 
As  I  passed  this  piece  of  road,  I  observed  at  regular 
distances  of  about  eight  feet,  the  stones  entirely  dis- 
placed from  spots  as  large  as  the  circumference  of  a 
half  bushel  measure.  This  singular  appearance  indu- 
ced me  to  inquire  the  cause  of  it  at  the  turnpike  gate. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  toll-gatherer,  "  I  wonder  not  at 
the  question,  but  I  am  unable  to  give  you  a  satisfac- 
tory answer.  Indeed,  sir,  I  believe  I  am  bewitched, 
and  that  the  turnpike  is  under  a  spell  of  enchantment; 
for  what  appeared  to  me  last  night  cannot  be  a  real 


PETER  RUGG.  57 

transaction  ;   otherwise  a  turnpike   gate  is  a  useless 
thing." 

*'  I  do  not  beheve  in  witchcraft  or  enchantment," 
said  I,  "  and  if  you  will  relate  circumstantially  what 
happened  last  night,  I  will  endeavor  to  account  for  it 
by  natural  means." 

"  You  may  recollect  the  night  was  uncommonly 
dark.  Well,  sir,  just  after  I  had  closed  the  gate  for 
the  night,  down  the  turnpike,  as  far  as  my  eye  could 
reach,  I  beheld,  what  at  first  appeared  to  me,  two 
armies  engaged.  The  report  of  the  musketry,  and 
the  flashes  of  their  firelocks  were  incessant  and  con- 
tinuous. As  this  strange  spectacle  approached  me 
with  the  fury  of  a  tornado,  the  noise  increased,  and 
the  appearance  rolled  on  in  one  compact  body  over 
the  surface  of  the  ground.  The  most  splendid  fire- 
works rose  out  of  the  earth,  and  encircled  this  mov- 
ing spectacle.  The  divers  tints  of  the  rainbow,  the 
most  brilliant  dyes  that  the  sun  lays  on  the  lap  of 
spring,  added  to  the  whole  family  of  gems,  could  not 
display  a  more  beautiful,  radiant  and  dazzling  spec- 
tacle than  accompanied  the  black  horse.  You  would 
have  thought  all  the  stars  of  heaven  had  met  in  mer- 
riment on  the  turnpike.  In  the  midst  of  this  luminous 
configuration  sat  a  man,  distinctly  to  be  seen,  in  a 
miserable  looking  chair,  drawn  by  a  black  horse.  The 
turnpike  gate  ought,  by  the  laws  of  nature,  and  the 
laws  of  the  state,  to  have  made  a  wreck  of  the  whole, 
and  have  dissolved  the  enchantment ;  but  no,  the 
horse  without  an   effort  passed  over  the   gate,  and 


58  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

drew  the  man  and  chair  horizontally  after  him  without 
touching  the  bar.  This  was  what  I  call  enchant- 
ment— what  think  you,  sir?" 

*'  My  friend,"  said  I,  "  you  have  grossly  magni- 
fied a  natural  occurrence.  The  man  was  Peter 
Rugg,  on  his  way  to  Boston.  It  is  true,  his  horse 
travelled  with  unequalled  speed,  but  as  he  reared  high 
his  fore  feet,  he  could  not  help  displacing  the  thou- 
sand small  stones  on  which  he  trod,  which  flying  in  all 
directions  struck  each  other,  and  resounded  and  scin- 
tillated. The  top  bar  of  your  gate  is  not  more  than 
two  feet  from  the  ground,  and  Rugg's  horse  at  every 
vault  could  easily  lift  the  carriage  over  that  gate." 

This  satisfied  Mr.  McDoubt  ;  and  I  was  pleased 
at  that  occurrence,  for  otherwise  Mr.  McDoubt,  who 
is  a  worthy  man,  late  from  the  Highlands,  might  have 
added  to  his  calendar  of  superstitions.  Having  thus 
disenchanted  the  McAdamized  road  and  the  turnpike 
gate,  and  also  Mr.  McDoubt,  I  pursued  my  journey 
homeward  to  New  York. 

Litde  did  I  expect  to  see  or  hear  any  thing  further 
of  Mr.  Rugg,  for  he  was  now  more  than  twelve  hours 
in  advance  of  me.  I  could  hear  nothing  of  him  on 
my  way  to  Elizabethtown.  I  therefore  concluded 
that  during  the  past  night  he  had  turned  off  from  the 
turnpike  and  pursued  a  westerly  direction.  But  just 
before  I  arrived  at  Powles's  Hook,  I  observed  a  con- 
siderable collection  of  passengers  in  the  ferry  boat,  all 
standing  motionless,  and  steadily  looking  at  the  same 
object.     One  of  the  ferrymen,  Mr.  Hardy,  who  well 


PETER  RUGG. 


59 


knew  me,  observing  my  approach,  delayed  a  minute, 
in  order  to  afford  me  a  passage,  and  coming  up,  said, 
"  Mr.  Dun  well,  we  have  got  a  curiosity  on  board, 
that  would  puzzle  Dr.  Mitchell." 

''  Some  strange  fish,  I  suppose,  has  found  its  way 
into  the  Hudson." 

"  No,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  man,  who  looks  as  if  he 
had  lain  hid  in  the  ark,  and  had  just  now  ventured  out. 
He  has  a  little  girl  with  him,  the  counterpart  of  him- 
self; and  the  finest  horse  you  ever  saw,  harnessed 
to  the  queerest  looking  carriage  that  ever  was  made." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Hardy,"  said  I,  "  you  have,  indeed, 
hooked  a  prize  ;  no  one  before  you  could  ever  detain 
Peter  Rugg  long  enough  to  examine  him." 

"  Do  you  know  the  man  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hardy. 

'^  No,  nobody  knows  him,  but  every  body  has  seen 
him.  Detain  him  as  long  as  possible  ;  delay  the  boat 
under  any  pretence  ;  cut  the  gear  of  the  horse  ;  do 
any  thing  to  detain  him." 

As  I  entered  the  ferry-boat,  I  was  struck  at  the 
spectacle  before  me  ;  there,  indeed,  sat  Peter  Rugg 
and  Jenny  Rugg  in  the  chair,  and  there  stood  the 
black  horse,  all  as  quiet  as  lambs,  surrounded  by 
more  than  fifty  men  and  women,  who  seemed  to  have 
lost  all  their  senses  but  one.  Not  a  motion,  not  a 
breath,  not  a  nestle.  They  were  all  eye.  Rugg  ap- 
peared to  them  to  be  a  man  not  of  this  world  :  and 
they  appeared  to  Rugg  a  strange  generation  of  men. 
Rugg  spoke  not,  and  they  spoke  not ;  nor  was  I  dis- 
posed to  disturb  the  calm  ;   satisfied,  to  reconnoitre 


(50  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Rugg  in  a  state  of  rest.  Presently,  Rugg  observed 
in  a  low  voice,  addressed  to  nobody,  "  A  new  con- 
trivance, horses  instead  of  oars ;  Boston  folks  are  full 
of  notions." 

It  was  plain  that  Rugg  was  of  Dutch  extract — he 
had  on  three  pair  of  small  clothes,  called  in  former 
days  of  simplicity,  breeches,  not  much  the  worse  for 
wear ;  but  time  had  proved  the  fabric,  and  shrunk 
each  of  them  more  than  the  other,  so  that  they  dis- 
covered at  the  knees,  their  different  qualities  and 
colors.  His  several  waistcoats,  the  flaps  of  all  which 
rested  on  his  knees,  gave  him  an  appearance  rather 
corpulent.  His  capacious  drab  coat  would  supply 
the  stuff  for  half  a  dozen  modern  ones.  The  sleeves 
were  like  meal  bags — in  the  cuffs  of  which  you  might 
nurse  a  child  to  sleep.  His  hat,  probably  once  black, 
now  of  a  tan  color,  was  neither  round  nor  crooked, 
but  much  in  shape  like  the  one  President  Monroe 
wore  on  his  late  tour.  This  dress  gave  the  rotund 
face  of  Rugg  an  antiquated  dignity.  The  man, 
though  deeply  sunburnt,  did  not  appear  to  be  more 
than  thirty  years  of  age.  He  had  lost  his  sad  and 
anxious  look,  was  quite  composed,  and  seemed  happy. 
The  chair  in  which  Rugg  sat,  was  very  capacious, 
evidently  made  for  service,  and  calculated  to  last  for 
ages.  The  timber  would  supply  material  for  three 
modern  carriages.  This  chair,  like  a  Nantucket 
coach,  would  answer  for  every  thing  that  ever  went 
on  wheels.  The  horse,  too,  was  an  object  of  curi- 
osity— his  majestic  height,  his  natural  mane  and  tail 


PETER  RUGG. 


61 


gave  him  a  commanding  appearance — and  his  large 
open  nostrils  indicated  inexhaustible  wind.  It  was 
apparent  that  the  hoofs- of  his  fore  feet  had  been  split, 
probably  on  some  newly  McAdamized  road,  and  were 
now  growing  together  again  ;  so  that  John  Spring 
was  not  altogether  in  the  wrong. 

How  long  this  dumb  scene  would  otherwise  have 
continued,  I  cannot  tell.  Rugg  discovered  no  sign 
of  impatience.  But  Rugg's  horse  having  been  quiet 
more  than  five  minutes,  had  no  idea  of  standino^  idle  ; 
he  began  to  whinny,  and  in  a  moment  after,  with  his 
right  fore  foot  he  started  a  plank.  Said  Rugg,  "My 
horse  is  impatient,  he  sees  the  North  End.  You 
must  be  quick,  or  he  will  be  ungovernable." 

At  these  words,  the  horse  raised  his  left  fore  foot ; 
and  when  he  laid  it  down,  every  inch  of  the  ferry-boat 
trembled.  Two  men  immediately  seized  Rugg's 
horse  by  the  nostrils.  The  horse  nodded,  and  both 
of  them  were  in  the  Hudson.  While  we  were  fishing 
up  the  men,  the  horse  was  perfectly  quiet. 

"  Fret  not  the  horse,"  said  Rugg,  "  and  he  will 
do  no  harm.  He  is  only  anxious,  like  myself,  to 
arrive  at  yonder  beautiful  shore.  He  sees  the  North 
Church,  and  smells  his  own  stable." 

"  Sir,"  said  I  to  Rugg,  practising  a  little  deception, 
"  pray  tell  me,  for  I  am  a  stranger  here,  what  river  is 
this,  and  what  city  is  that  opposite  ?  for  you  seem  to 
be  an  inhabitant  of  it." 

''  This  river,  sir,  is  called  Mystic  river,  and  this 
is  Winnisimmet  ferry ;  we  have  retained  the  Indian 
G 


(32  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

names ;  and  that  town  is  Boston.  You  must,  indeed, 
be  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  not  to  know  that  yonder 
is  Boston,  the  capital  of  the  New  England  provinces." 

''  Pray,  sir,  how  long  have  you  been  absent  from 
Boston?" 

"  Why,  that  I  cannot  exactly  tell.  I  lately  went 
with  this  little  girl  of  mine  to  Concord,  to  see  my 
friends  ;  and  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you,  in  returning, 
lost  the  way,  and  have  been  travelling  ever  since. 
No  one  would  direct  me  right.  It  is  cruel  to  mislead 
a  traveller.  My  horse,  Lightfoot,  has  boxed  the 
compass,  and  it  seems  to  me  he  has  boxed  it  back 
again.  But,  sir,  you  perceive  my  horse  is  uneasy  ; 
Lightfoot,  as  yet,  has  only  given  a  hint  and  a  nod, 
I  cannot  be  answerable  for  his  heels." 

At  these  words  Lightfoot  reared  his  lono-  tail,  and 
snapped  it  as  you  would  a  whip  lash.  The  Hudson 
reverberated  with  the  sound.  Instantly  the  six  horses 
began  to  move  the  boat.  The  Hudson  was  a  sea  of 
glass,  smooth  as  oil,  not  a  ripple.  The  horses,  from 
a  smart  trot,  soon  pressed  into  a  gallop  ;  water  now 
run  over  the  gunwale  ;  the  ferry-boat  was  soon 
buried  in  an  ocean  of  foam,  and  the  noise  of  the  spray 
was  like  the  roaring  of  many  waters.  When  we 
arrived  at  New  York,  you  might  see  the  beautiful 
white  wake  of  the  ferry-boat  across  the  Hudson. 

Though  Rugg  refused  to  pay  toll  at  turnpikes,  when 
Mr.  Hardy  reached  his  hand  for  the  ferriage,  Rugg 
readily  put  his  hand  into  one  of  his  many  pockets, 
and  took  out  a  piece  of  silver,  and  handed  it  to 
Hardy. 


PETER  RUGG. 


63 


*^  What  is  this  ?  "  said  Mr.  Hardy. 

"  It  is  thirty  shillings,"  said  Rugg. 

*'  It  might  have  once  been  thirty  shillings,  old 
tenor,"  said  Mr.  Hardy,  "  but  it  is  not  at  present." 

"  The  money  is  good  English  coin,"  said  Rugg ; 
"  my  grandfather  brought  a  bag  of  them  from  Eng- 
land, and  had  them  hot  from  the  mint." 

Hearing  this,  I  approached  near  to  Rugg,  and  asked 
permission  to  see  the  coin.  It  was  a  half  crown,  coined 
by  the  English  Parliament,  dated  in  the  year  1649. 
On  one  side.  The  Cojnmomvealth  of  England,^'  and 
St.  George's  cross  encircled  with  a  wreath  of  laurel. 
On  the  other,  ''  God  ivith  us,''  and  a  harp  and  St. 
George's  cross  united.  I  winked  to  Mr.  Hardy,  and 
pronounced  it  good  current  money ;  and  said  loudly, 
I  would  not  permit  the  gentleman  to  be  imposed  on, 
for  I  would  exchange  the  money  myself.  On  this, 
Rugg  spoke — "  Please  to  give  me  your  name,  sir." 

"  My  name  is  Dunwell,  sir,"  I  replied. 

''  Mr.  Dunwell,"  said  Rugg,  "  you  are  the  only 
honest  man  I  have  seen  since  I  left  Boston.  As  you 
are  a  stranger  here,  my  house  is  your  home  ;  dame 
Rugg  will  be  happy  to  see  her  husband's  friend. 
Step  into  my  chair,  sir,  there  is  room  enough  ;  move 
a  little,  Jenny,  for  the  gentleman,  and  we  will  be  in 
Middle  street  in  a  minute." 

Accordingly  I  took  a  seat  by  Peter  Rugg. 

"  Were  you  never  in  Boston  before  ? "  said  Ruo-of. 

''  No,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  you  will  now  see  the  queen  of  New  Eng- 


54  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

land,  a  town  second  only  to  Philadelphia,  in  all  North 
America." 

"  You  forget  New  York,"  said  I. 

"  Poh,  New  York  is  nothing ;  though  I  never  was 
there.  I  am  told  you  might  put  all  New  York  in  our 
Mill  pond.  No,  sir,  New  York,  I  assure  you,  is  hut 
a  sorry  affair,  no  more  to  be  compared  to  Boston  than 
a  wigwam  to  a  palace." 

As  Rugg's  horse  turned  into  Pearl  street,  I  looked 
Rugg  as  fully  in  the  face  as  good  manners  \vould 
allow,  and  said,  "Sir,  if  this  is  Boston,'!  acknowledge 
New  York  is  not  worthy  to  be  one  of  its  suburbs." 

Before  we  had  proceeded  far  in  Pearl  street, 
Ruojo's  countenance  chans^ed ;  he  besran  to  twitter 
under  his  ears ;  his  eyes  trembled  in  tlieir  sockets  ; 
he  was  evidently  bewildered.  "  What  is  the  matter, 
Mr.  Rugg  ;  you  seem  disturbed." 

"  This  surpasses  all  human  comprehension  ;  if 
you  know,  sir,  where  we  are,  I  beseech  you  to  tell 
me." 

"  If  this  place,"  I  replied,  "  is  not  Boston,  it  must 
be  New  York." 

"  No,  sir,  it  is  not  Boston  ;  nor  can  it  be  New 
York.  How  could  I  be  in  New  York,  which  is  nearly 
two  hundred  miles  from  Boston  ?" 

By  this  time  we  had  passed  into  Broadway,  and 
then  Rugg,  in  truth,  discovered  a  chaotic  mind. 
"  There  is  no  such  place  as  this  in  North  America  ; 
this  is  all  the  effect  of  enchantment ;  this  is  a  grand 
delusion,  nothing  real ;  here  is  seemingly  a  great  city, 


PETER  RUGG.  55 

magnificent  houses,  shops  and  goods,  men  and  women 
innumerable,  and  as  busy  as  in  real  life,  all  sprang  up 
in  one  night  from  the  wilderness.  Or  what  is  more 
probable,  some  tremendous  convulsion  of  nature  has 
thrown  London  or  Amsterdam  on  the  shores  of  New 
England.  Or,  possibly,  I  may  be  dreaming,  though 
the  night  seems  rather  long ;  but  before  now  I  have 
sailed  in  one  night  to  Amsterdam,  bought  goods  of 
Vandocrsier,  and  returned  to  Boston  before  mornins;." 

At  this  moment,  a  hue  and  cry  was  heard,  "  Stop 
the  madmen,  they  will  endanger  the  lives  of  thou- 
sands I "  In  vain  hundreds  attempted  to  stop  Rugg's 
horse.  Lightfoot  interfered  with  nothing ;  his  course 
was  straight  as  a  shooting  star.  But  on  my  part,  fear- 
ful that  before  night  I  should  find  myself  behind  the 
Alleghanies,  I  addressed  Mr.  Rugg  in  a  tone  of 
entreaty,  and  requested  him  to  restrain  the  horse  and 
permit  me  to  alight. 

"My  friend,"  said  he,  "we  shall  be  in  Boston 
before  dark,  and  dame  Rugg  will  be  most  exceeding 
glad  to  see  us." 

"  Mr.  Rugg,"  said  I,  "  you  must  excuse  me,  pray 
look  to  the  west,  see  that  thunder  cloud  sw^elling  with 
rage,  as  if  in  pursuit  of  us." 

"  Ah,"  said  Rugg,  "  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to 
escape ;  I  know  that  cloud,  it  is  collecting  new  wrath 
to  spend  on  my  head."  Then  checking  his  horse,  he 
permitted  me  to  descend,  saying,  "  Farewell,  Mr. 
Dun  well,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you  in  Boston ;  I 
live  in  Middle  street." 
6*' 


(55  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

It  is  uncertain  in  what  direction  Mr.  Rugg  pursued 
his  course,  after  he  disappeared  in  Broadway  :  but 
one  thing  is  sufficiently  known  to  every  body,  that  in- 
the  course  of  two  months  after  he  was  seen  in  New 
York,  he  found  his  way  most  opportunely  to  Boston. 

It  seems  the  estate  of  Peter  Rugg  had  recently 
escheated  to  the  Commonwealth  of  Massachusetts  for 
want  of  heirs ;  and  the  legislature  had  ordered  the 
Solicitor  General  to  advertise  and  sell  it  at  public 
auction.  Happening  to  be  in  Boston  at  the  time,  and 
observing  his  advertisement,  which  described  a  con- 
siderable extent  of  land,  I  felt  a  kindly  curiosity  to 
see  the  spot  where  Rugg  once  lived.  Taking  the 
advertisement  in  my  hand,  I  wandered  a  little  way 
down  Middle  street,  and,  without  asking  a  question  of 
any  one,  when  I  came  to  a  certain  spot,  I  said  to  my- 
self, "  This  is  Rugg's  estate — I  will  proceed  no  fur- 
ther— this  must  be  the  spot ;  it  is  a  counterpart  of 
Peter  Rugg."  The  premises,  indeed,  looked  as  if 
they  had  accomplished  a  sad  prophesy.  Fronting  on 
IMiddle  street,  they  extended  in  the  rear  to  Ann 
street,  and  embraced  about  half  an  acre  of  land.  It 
was  not  uncommon  in  former  times  to  have  half  an 
acre  for  a  house  lot ;  for  an  acre  of  land  then,  in 
many  parts  of  Boston,  was  not  more  valuable  than  a 
foot  in  some  places  at  present.  The  old  mansion 
house  had  become  a  powder-post,  and  been  blown 
away.  One  other  building,  uninhabited,  stood  omi- 
nous, courting  dilapidation.  The  street  had  been  so 
much  raised,  that  the  bed  chamber  had  descended  to 


PETER  RUGG.  g7 

the  kitchen,  and  was  level  with  the  street.  The  house 
seemed  conscious  of  its  fate,  and,  as  though  tired  of 
standing  there,  the  front  was  fast  retreating  from  the 
rear,  and  waiting  the  next  south  wind  to  project  itself 
into  the  street.  If  the  most  wary  animals  had  sought 
a  place  of  refuge,  here  they  would  have  rendezvoused. 
Here,  under  the  ridge-pole,  the  crow  would  have 
perched  in  security  ;  and  in  the  recesses  below,  you 
might  have  caught  the  fox  and  the  weasel  asleep. 
The  hand  of  destiny,  said  I,  has  pressed  heavy  on  this 
spot ;  still  heavier  on  the  former  owners.  Strange 
that  so  large  a  lot  of  land  as  this  should  want  an  heir  I 
Yet  Peter  Rugg,  at  this  day,  might  pass  by  his  own 
door  stone,  and  ask,  "  who  once  lived  there  ?" 

The  auctioneer,  appointed  by  the  Sohcitor  to  sell 
this  estate,  was  a  man  of  eloquence,  as  many  of  the 
auctioneers  of  Boston  are.  The  occasion  seemed  to 
warrant,  and  his  duty  urged  him  to  make  a  display. 
He  addressed  his  audience  as  follows  : 

"  The  estate,  gentlemen,  which  we  offer  you  this 
day,  was  once  the  property  of  a  family  now  extinct. 
It  has  escheated  to  the  Commonwealth  for  want  of 
heirs.  Lest  any  one  of  you  should  be  deterred  from 
bidding  on  so  large  an  estate  as  this,  for  fear  of  a  dis- 
puted title,  I  am  authorized,  by  the  Solicitor  General, 
to  proclaim  that  the  purchaser  shall  have  the  best  of 
all  titles,  a  warranty  deed  from  the  Commonwealth. 
I  state  this,  gentlemen,  because  1  know  there  is  an 
idle  rumor  in  this  vicinity,  that  one  Peter  Rugg,  the 
original   owner  of  this  estate,  is  still   living.     This 


QQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

rumor,  gentlemen,  has  no  foundation,  and  can  have  no 
foundation  in  the  nature  of  things.  It  originated 
about  two  years  since,  from  the  incredible  story  of 
one  Jonathan  Dunwell,  of  New  York.  Mrs.  Croft, 
indeed,  whose  husband  I  see  present,  and  whose 
mouth  waters  for  this  estate,  has  countenanced  this 
fiction.  But,  gentlemen,  was  it  ever  known  that  any 
estate,  especially  an  estate  of  this  value,  lay  unclaimed 
for  nearly  half  a  century,  if  any  heir,  ever  so  remote, 
was  existing  ?  For,  gentlemen,  all  agree,  that  old 
Peter  Rugg,  if  living,  would  be  at  least  one  hundred 
years  of  age.  It  is  said  that  he  and  his  daughter, 
with  a  horse  and  chaise,  were  missed  more  than  half 
a  century  ago ;  and  because  they  never  returned 
home,  forsooth,  they  must  be  now  living,  and  will, 
some  day,  come  and  claim  this  great  estate.  Such 
logic,  gentlemen,  never  led  to  a  good  investment. 
Let  not  this  idle  story  cross  the  noble  purpose  of  con- 
signing these  ruins  to  the  genius  of  architecture.  If 
such  a  contingency  could  check  the  spirit  of  enter- 
prise, farewell  to  all  mercantile  excitement.  Your 
surplus  money,  instead  of  refreshing  your  sleep  with 
the  golden  dreams  of  new  sources  of  speculation, 
would  turn  to  the  nightmare.  A  man's  money,  if  not 
employed,  serves  only  to  disturb  his  rest.  Look, 
then,  to  the  prospect  before  you.  Here  is  half  an 
acre  of  land,  more  than  twenty  thousand  square  feet, 
a  corner  lot,  with  wonderful  capabilities ;  none  of 
your  contracted  lots  of  forty  feet  by  fifty,  where,  in 
dog  days,  you  can  breathe  only  through  your  scuttles. 


PETER  RUGG.  59 

On  tlie  contrary,  an  architect  cannot  contemplate  this 
extensive  lot  without  rapture,  for  here  is  room  enough 
for  his  genius  to  shame  the  temple  of  Solomon. 
Then,  the  prospect,  how  commanding  !  To  the  east, 
so  near  to  the  Atlantic,  that  Neptune,  freighted  with 
the  select  treasures  of  the  whole  earth,  can  knock  at 
your  door  with  his  trident.  From  the  west,  all  the 
produce  of  the  river  of  paradise,  the  Connecticut, 
will  soon,  by  the  blessings  of  steam,  rail  ways  and 
canals,  pass  under  your  windows  ;  and  thus,  on  this 
spot,  Neptune  shall  marry  Ceres,  and  Pomona  from 
Roxbury,  and  Flora  from  Cambridge,  shall  dance  at 
the  wedding. 

"  Gentlemen  of  science,  men  of  taste,  ye  of  the 
Literary  Emporium,  for  I  perceive  many  of  you 
present :  to  you,  this  is  holy  ground.  If  the  spot 
over  which,  in  times  past,  a  hero  left  only  the  print  of 
a  footstep,  is  now  sacred,  of  what  price  is  the  birth- 
place of  one,  who,  all  the  world  knows,  was  born  in 
Middle  street,  directly  opposite  to  this  lot ;  and  who, 
if  his  birth-place  was  not  well  known,  would  now  be 
claimed  by  more  than  seven  cities.  To  you,  then, 
the  value  of  these  premises  must  be  inestimable. 
For,  ere  Ions;,  there  will  arise  in  front  view  of  the 
edifice  to  be  erected  here,  a  monument,  the  wonder 
and  veneration  of  the  world.  A  column  shall  spring 
to  the  clouds  ;  and  on  that  column  will  be  engraven 
one  word,  that  will  convey  all  that  is  wise  in  intellect, 
useful  in  science,  good  in  morals,  prudent  in  counsel, 
and  benevolent  in  principle;  a  name,  when  living, 
the  patron  of  the  poor,  the  delight  of  the  cottage,  and 


70  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

the  admiration  of  kings  ;  now  dead,  worth  the  whole 
seven  wise  men  of  Greece.  Need  I  tell  you  his 
name  ?  He  fixed  the  thunder  and  guided  the  light- 
ning. 

'•  Men  of  the  North  End  !  Need  I  appeal  to  your 
patriotism,  in  order  to  enhance  the  value  of  this  lot  ? 
The  earth  affords  no  such  scenery  as  this ;  there, 
around  that  corner,  lived  James  Otis  ;  here,  Samuel 
Adams  ;  there,  Joseph  Warren  ;  and  around  that 
other  corner,  Josiah  Quincy.  Here  was  the  birth- 
place of  Freedom ;  here.  Liberty  was  born,  and 
nursed,  and  grew  to  manhood.  Here,  man  was  new 
created.  Here  is  the  nursery  of  American  Inde- 
pendence— I  am  too  modest — here  commenced  the 
emancipation  of  the  world  ;  a  thousand  generations 
hence,  millions  of  men  will  cross  the  Atlantic,  just  to 
look  at  the  North  End  of  Boston.  Your  fathers — 
what  do  I  say  ?  Yourselves,  yes,  this  moment,  I  be- 
hold several  attending  this  auction  who  lent  a  hand  to 
rock  the  cradle  of  Independence. 

''  Men  of  speculation  !  Ye  who  are  deaf  to  every 
thing  except  the  sound  of  money,  you,  I  know,  will 
give  me  both  of  your  ears,  when  I  tell  you  the  city  of 
Boston  must  have  a  piece  of  this  estate  in  order  to 
widen  Ann  street.  Do  you  hear  me  ?  do  you  all 
hear  me  ?  I  say  the  city  must  have  a  large  piece  of 
this  land  in  order  to  widen  Ann  street.  What  a 
chance  !  The  city  scorns  to  take  a  man's  land  for 
nothing.  If  they  seize  your  property,  they  are  gene- 
rous beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  The  only  op- 
pression is,  you  are   in   danger  of  being  smothered 


PETER  RUGG.  7I 

under  a  load  of  wealth.  Witness  the  old  lady  who 
lately  died  of  a  broken  heart,  when  the  Mayor  paid 
her  for  a  piece  of  her  kitchen  garden.  All  the  fac- 
ulty agreed  that  the  sight  of  the  treasure,  which  the 
Mayor  incautiously  paid  her  in  dazzling  dollars,  warm 
from  the  mint,  sped  joyfully  all  the  blood  of  her  body 
into  her  heart,  and  rent  it  in  raptures.  Therefore,  let 
him  who  purchases  this  estate,  fear  his  good  fortune, 
and  not  Peter  Rugg.  Bid,  then,  liberally,  and  do 
not  let  the  name  of  Rugg  damp  your  ardor.  How 
much  will  you  give  per  foot  for  this  estate  r" 

Thus  spoke  the  auctioneer,  and  gracefully  waved 
his  ivory  hammer.  From  fifty  to  seventy-five  cents 
per  foot,  were  offered  in  a  few  moments.  It  labored 
from  seventy-five  to  ninety.  At  length  one  dollar 
was  offered.  The  auctioneer  seemed  satisfied ;  and 
looking  at  his  watch,  said  he  would  knock  off  the 
estate  in  five  minutes,  if  no  one  offered  more. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  during  this  short  period. 
While  the  hammer  was  suspended,  a  strange  rumbling 
noise  was  heard,  which  arrested  the  attention  of  every 
one.  Presently,  it  was  like  the  sound  of  many  ship- 
wrights driving  home  the  bolts  of  a  seventy-four. 
As  the  sound  approached  nearer,  some  exclaimed, 
"  the  buildings  in  the  new  market  are  fahing  in  pro- 
miscuous ruins."  Others  said,  ^^  no  ;  it  is  an  earth- 
quake, we  perceive  the  earth  joggle."  Others  said, 
"  not  so  ;  the  sound  proceeds  from  Hanover  street, 
and  approaches  nearer;"  and  this  proved  true,  for 
•  presently  Peter  Rugg  was  in  the  midst  of  us. 

"  Alas,  Jenny,"  said  Peter,    ^- 1  am  ruined ;  our 


'^2  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

house  has  been  burnt,  and  here  are  all  our  neighbors 
around  the  rums.  Heaven  grant  your  mother  dame 
Rugg  is  safe." 

"  They  don't  look  like  our  neighbors)"  said  Jenny  ; 
''  but  sure  enough  our  house  is  burnt,  and  nothing  left 
but  the  door  stone,  and  an  old  cedar  post — do  ask 
where  mother  is  ?" 

In  the  mean  time  more  than  a  thousand  men  had 
surrounded  Rugg,  and  his  horse  and  chair.  Yet 
neither  Rugg,  personally,  nor  his  horse  and  carriage 
attracted  more  attention  than  the  auctioneer.  The 
confident  look  and  searching  eyes  of  Rugg,  to  every 
one  present,  carried  more  conviction,  that  the  estate 
was  his,  than  could  any  parchment  or  paper  with  sig- 
nature and  seal.  The  impression  which  the  auc- 
tioneer had  just  made  on  the  company  was  effaced  in 
a  moment :  and  although  the  latter  words  of  the  auc- 
tioneer were,  "  fear  not  Peter  Rugg,"  the  moment 
the  auctioneer  met  the  eye  of  Rugg,  his  occupation 
was  gone,  his  arm  fell  down  to  his  hips,  his  late  lively 
hammer  hung  heavy  in  his  hand,  and  the  auction  was 
forgotten.  The  black  horse,  too,  gave  his  evidence.  He 
knew  his  journey  was  ended,  for  he  stretched  himself 
into  a  horse  and  a  half,  rested  his  cheek  bone  over 
the  cedar  post,  and  whinnyed  thrice,  causing  his  har- 
ness to  tremble  from  headstall  to  crupper. 

Rugg  then  stood  upright  in  his  chair,  and  asked 
with  some  authority,  "  Who  has  demolished  my 
house,  in  my  absence,  for  I  see  no  signs  of  a  confla- 
gration ?  I  demand,  by  what  accident  this  has  hap- 
pened ;  and  wherefore  this  collection  of  strange  peo- 


PETER  RUGG. 


73 


pie  has  assembled  before  my  door-step  ?  I  thought 
I  knew  every  man  in  Boston,  but  you  appear  to 
me  a  new  generation  of  men.  Yet  I  am  familiar 
with  many  of  the  countenances  here  present,  and  I 
can  call  some  of  you  by  name  :  but  in  truth  I  do  not 
recollect  that  before  this  moment,  I  ever  saw  any  one 
of  you.  There,  I  am  certain,  is  a  Winslow,  and  here 
a  Sargent ;  there  stands  a  Sewall,  and  next  to  him  a 
Dudley.  Will  none  of  you  speak  to  me  ?  Or  is  this 
all  a  delusion  ?  I  see,  indeed,  many  forms  of  men, 
and  no  want  of  eyes,  but  of  motion,  speech  and  hear- 
ing, you  seem  to  be  destitute.  Strange  !  will  no  one 
inform  me  who  has  demolished  my  house  ?'"' 

Then  spake  a  voice  from  the  crowd,  but  whence  it 
came  I  could  not  discern.  "  There  is  nothins;  stranc^e 
here,  but  yourself,  Mr.  Rugg.  Time,  which  destroys 
and  renews  all  things,  has  dilapidated  your  house,  and 
placed  us  here.  You  have  suffered  many  years  under 
an  illusion.  The  tempest  which  you  profanely  defied 
at  Menotomy  has  at  length  subsided  ;  but  you  will 
never  see  home  ;  for  your  house  and  wife  and  neigh- 
bors have  all  disappeared.  Your  estate,  indeed,  re- 
mains, but  no  home.  You  were  cut  ofi  from  the  last 
age,  and  you  can  never  be  fitted  to  the  present. 
Your  home  is  gone,  and  you  can  never  have  another 
home  in  this  world." 


WRECK   OF   THE   HESPERUS. 


By  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

It  was  the  schooner  Hesperus, 

That  sailed  the  wintry  sea ; 
And  the  Skipper  had  ta'en  his  little  daughter, 

To  bear  him  company. 

Blue  were  her  eyes  as  the  fairy-flax. 
Her  cheeks  like  the  dawn  of  day, 

And  her  bosom  sweet  as  the  hawthorn  buds, 
That  ope  in  the  month  of  May. 

The  Skipper  he  stood  beside  the  helm. 

With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
And  watched  how  the  veering  flaw  did  blow 

The  smoke  now  West,  now  South. 

Then  up  and  spaKe  an  old  Sailor, 

Had  sail'd  the  Spanish  Main, 
I  pray  thee,  put  into  yonder  port. 

For  I  fear  a  hurricane. 

Last  night,  the  moon  had  a  golden  ring, 

And  to-night  no  moon  we  see  ! 
The  Skipper,  he  blew  a  whiff"  from  his  pipe, 

And  a  scornful  laugh  laugh' d  he. 


WRECK  OF  THE   HESPERUS.  75 

Colder  and  louder  blew  the  wind, 

A  gale  from  the  North-east  ; 
The  snow  fell  hissing  in  the  brine, 

And  the  billows  froth'd  like  yeast. 

Down  came  the  storm,  and  smote  amain 

The  vessel  in  its  strength  ; 
She  shudder'd  and  paus'd,  like  a  frighted  steed, 

Then  leap'd  her  cable's  length. 

Come  hither  !    come  hither  !    my  little  daughter. 

And  do  not  tremble  so  ; 
For  I  can  weather  the  roughest  gale, 

That  ever  wind  did  blow. 

He  wrapp'd  her  warm  in  his  seaman's  coat 

Against  the  stinging  blast  ; 
He  cut  a  rope  from  a  broken  spar, 

And  bound  her  to  the  mast. 

O  father  !   I  hear  the  church-bells  ring, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  1 
'T  is  a  fog-bell  on  a  rock-bound  coast ! 

And  he  steer' d  for  the  open  sea. 

O  father  !   I  hear  the  sound  of  guns, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ! 
Some  ship  in  distress,  that  cannot  live 

In  such  an  angry  sea  ! 

O  father  I    I  see  a  gleaming  light, 

O  say,  what  may  it  be  ! 
But  the  father  answer'd  never  a  word, 

A  frozen  corpse  was  he. 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Lash'd  to  the  helm,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

AVith  his  face  to  the  skies, 
The  lantern  gleam'd  through  the  gleaming  snow 

On  his  fix'd  and  glassy  eyes. 

Then  the  maiden  clasped  her  hands  and  prayed 

That  saved  she  might  be  ; 
And  she  thought  of  Christ,  who  still' d  the  wave 

On  the  Lake  of  Galilee. 

And  fast  through  the  midnight  dark  and  drear, 
Through  the  whistling  sleet  and  snow, 

Like  a  sheeted  ghost  the  vessel  swept. 
Toward  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe. 

And  ever  the  fitful  gusts  between 

A  sound  came  from  the  land  ; 
It  was  the  sound  of  the  trampling  surf. 

On  the  rocks  and  the  hard  sea-sand. 

The  breakers  were  right  beneath  her  bows. 

She  drifted  a  dreary  wreck, 
And  a  whooping  billow  swept  the  crew 

Like  icicles  from  her  deck. 

She  struck  where  the  white  and  fleecy  waves 

Look'd  soft  as  carded  wool. 
But  the  cruel  rocks,  they  gored  her  side 

Like  the  horns  of  an  angry  bull. 

Her  rattling  shrouds,  all  sheath'd  in  ice. 
With  the  masts,  went  by  the  board  ; 

Like  a  vessel  of  glass,  she  stove  and  sank. 
Ho  !    ho  !    the  breakers  roar'd  ! 


WRECK  OF  THE   HESPERUS.  77 

At  day-break,  on  the  bleak  sea-beach, 

A  fisherman  stood  aghast. 
To  see  the  form  of  a  maiden  fair, 

Lash'd  close  to  a  drifting  mast. 

The  salt  sea  was  frozen  on  her  breast, 

The  salt  tears  in  her  eyes  ; 
And  he  saw  her  hair,  like  the  brown  sea-weed. 

On  the  billows  fall  and  rise. 

Such  was  the  wreck  of  the  Hesperus, 

In  the  midnight  and  the  snow  ! 
Christ  save  us  all  from  a  death  like  this 

On  the  reef  of  Norman's  Woe  ! 


7* 


THREE   PICTURES   OF   BOSTON. 

By  Edward  Everett. 

To  understand  the  cliaracte-'  of  the  commerce  of  our 
own  city,  we  must  not  look  merely  at  one  point,  but 
at  the  whole  circuit  of  country,  of  which  it  is  the 
business  centre.  We  must  not  contemplate  it  only  at 
this  present  moment  of  time,  but  we  must  bring  before 
our  imaginations,  as  in  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  diorama, 
at  least  three  successive  historical  and  topographical 
pictures  ;  and  truly  instructive  I  think  it  would  be  to 
see  them  delineated  on  canvass.  We  must  survey 
the  first  of  them  in  the  company  of  the  venerable  John 
Winthrop,  the  founder  of  the  State.  Let  us  go  up 
with  him,  on  the  day  of  his  landing,  the  seventeenth 
of  June,  1630  to  the  heights  of  yonder  peninsula,  as 
yet  without  a  name.  Landward  stretches  a  dismal 
forest ;  seaward,  a  waste  of  w-aters,  unspotted  with 
a  sail,  except  that  of  his  own  ship.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hill  you  see  the  cabins  of  Walfcrd  and  the 
Spragucs,  who — the  latter  a  year  before,  the  former 
still  earlier — had  adventured  to  this  spot,  untenanted 
else  by  any  child  of  civilization.  On  the  other  side 
of  the  river  hes  Mr.  Rlackstone's  farm.     It  comprises 


THREE  PICTURES  OF  BOSTON.        79 

three  goodly  bills,  converted  by  a  spring-tide  into 
three  wood-crowned  islets  ;  and  it  is  mainly  valued  for 
a  noble  spring  of  fresh  water  which  gushes  from  the 
northern  slope  of  one  of  these  hills,  and  which  fur- 
nished, in  the  course  of  the  summer,  the  motive  for 
transferring  the  seat  of  the  infant  settlement.  This 
shall  be  the  first  picture. 

The  second  shall  be  contemplated  from  the  same 
spot — the  heights  of  Charlestown — on  the  same  day, 
the  eventful  seventeenth  of  June,  one  hundred  and 
forty-five  years  later,  namely,  in  the  year  1775.  A 
terrific  scene  of  w^ar  rages  on  the  top  of  the  hill. 
Wait  for  a  favorable  moment,  when  the  volumes  of 
fiery  smoke  roll  away,  and  over  the  masts  of  that 
sixty-gun  ship  whose  batteries  are  blazing  upon  the 
hill,  you  behold  Mr.  Blackstone's  farm  changed  to  an 
ill-built  town  of  about  two  thousand  dwelling  houses, 
mostly  of  wood,  with  scarce  any  public  buildings, 
but  eiglit  or  nine  churches,  the  old  State  House, 
and  Faneuil  Hall  ;  Roxbury  beyond,  an  insignificant 
village  ;  a  vacant  marsh  in  all  the  space  now  occu- 
pied by  Cambridgeport  and  East  Cambridge,  by 
Chelsea  and  East  Boston  ;  and  beneath  your  feet  the 
town  of  Charlestown,  consisting  in  the  morning  of  a 
line  of  about  three  hundred  houses,  wrapped  in  a 
sheet  of  flames  at  noon,  and  reduced  at  eventide  to  a 
heap  of  ashes. 

But  those  fires  are  kindled  on  the  altar  of  Liberty. 
American  Independence  is  established.  American 
Commerce  smiles  on  the  spot ;    and  now  from  the 


gQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

top  of  one  of  the  triple  hills  of  Mr.  Blackstone's 
fai-m,  a  stately  edifice  arises,  which  seems  to  invite 
us  as  to  an  observatory.  As  we  look  down  from 
this  lofty  structure,  we  behold  the  third  picture — 
a  crowded,  busy  scene.  We  see  beneath  us  a  city 
containing  eighty  or  ninety  thousand  inhabitants,  and 
mainly  built  of  brick  and  granite.  Vessels  of  every 
description  are  moored  at  the  wharves.  Long  lines 
of  commodious  and  even  stately  houses  cover  a  space 
which,  within  the  memory  of  man,  was  in  a  state  of 
nature.  Substantial  blocks  of  ware  houses  and  stores 
have  forced  their  way  to  the  channel.  Faneuil  Hall 
itself,  the  consecrated  and  unchangeable,  has  swelled 
to  twice  its  original  dimensions.  Atheneums,  hospi- 
tals, asylums  and  infirmaries,  adorn  the  streets.  The 
school  house  rears  its  modest  front  in  every  quarter  of 
the  city,  and  sixty  or  seventy  churches  attest  the 
children  are  content  to  walk  in  the  good  old  ways  of 
their  fathers.  Connected  with  the  city  by  eight 
bridges,  avenues,  or  ferries,  you  behold  a  range  of 
towns  most  of  them  municipally  distinct,  but  all  of 
them  in  reality  forming  with  Boston  one  vast  me- 
tropolis, animated  by  one  commercial  life.  Shading 
off  from  these,  you  see  that  most  lovely  back-ground, 
a  succession  of  happy  settlements,  spotted  with  villas, 
farm  houses  and  cottages  ;  united  to  Boston  by  a  con- 
stant intercourse ;  sustaining  the  capital  from  their 
fields  and  gardens,  and  prosperous  in  the  reflux  of 
the  city's  wealth.  Of  the  social  life  included  within 
this  circuit,  and  of  all  that  in  times  past  has  adorned 


THREE  PICTURES  OF  BOSTON.  Q^ 

and  ennobled  it,  commercial  industry  has  been  an  ac- 
tive element,  and  has  exalted  itself  by  an  intimate 
association  with  every  thing  else  we  hold  dear. 
Within  this  circuit  what  memorials  strike  the  eye  ! — 
what  recollections — what  institutions — what  patriotic 
treasures  and  names  that  cannot  die  !  There  lie  the 
canonized  precincts  of  Lexington  and  Concord  ;  there 
rise  the  sacred  heights  of  Dorchester  and  Concord  ; 
there  is  Harvard,  the  ancient  and  venerable,  foster- 
child  of  public  and  private  liberality  in  every  part  of 
the  State  :  to  whose  existence  Charlestown  oave  the 
first  impulse,  to  \\  hose  growth  and  usefulness  the  opu- 
lence of  Boston  has  at  all  times  ministered  with  open 
hand.  Still  farther  on  than  the  eye  can  reach,  four 
lines  of  comnumication  by  railroad  and  steam  have 
within  our  own  day  united  with  the  capital,  by  bands 
of  iron,  a  still  broader  circuit  of  towns  and  villages. 
Hark  to  the  voice  of  life  and  business  which  sounds 
along  the  lines  !  While  we  speak,  one  of  them  is 
shooting  onward  to  the  illimitable  W^est,  and  all  are 
uniting  with  the  other  kindred  enterprises,  to  form 
one  harmonious  and  prosperous  whole,  in  which  town 
and  country,  agriculture  and  manufactures,  labor  and 
capital,  art  and  nature — wrought  and  compacted  into 
one  grand  system — are  constantly  gathering  and  dif- 
fusing, concentrating  and  radiating  the  economical,  the 
social,  the  moral  blessings  of  a  liberal  and  diffusive 
commerce. 


LINES  ON  LEAVING   EUROPE. 


By  N.  p.  Willis. 

Bright  flag  at  yonder  tapering  mast  1 
Fling  out  your  field  of  azure  blue  ; 

Let  star  and  stripe  be  westward  cast, 
And  point  as  Freedom's  eagle  flew  ! 

Strain  home !  oh  lithe  and  quivering  spars 

Point  home,  my  country's  flag  of  stars  ! 

The  wind  blows  fair  !  the  vessel  feels 

The  pressure  of  the  rising  breeze, 
And,  swiftest  of  a  thousand  keels. 

She  leaps  to  the  careering  seas  ! 
Oh,  fair,  fair  cloud  of  snowy  sail, 

In  whose  white  breast  I  seem  to  lie. 
How  oft,  when  blew  this  eastern  gale, 

I  've  seen  your  semblance  in  the  sky, 
And  longed,  with  breaking  heart,  to  flee 

On  such  white  pinions  o'er  the  sea ! 

Adieu,  oh  lands  of  fame  and  eld  ! 

I  turn  to  watch  our  foamy  track. 
And  thoughts  with  which  I  first  beheld 

Yon  clouded  line,  come  hurrying  back  ; 


LINES  ON  LEAVING  EUROPE.  g3 

My  lips  are  dry  with  vague  desire, — 
My  cheek  once  more  is  hot  with  joy — 

My  pulse,  my  brain,  my  soul  on  fire  ! — 
Oh,  what  has  changed  that  traveller-boy  I 

As  leaves  the  ship  this  dying  foam, 

His  visions  fade  behind — his  weary  heart  speeds 
home  ! 

Adieu,  oh  soft  and  southern  shore, 

Where  dwelt  the  stars  long  missed  in  heaven  ! 
Those  forms  of  beauty  seen  no  more, 

Yet  once  to  Art's  rapt  vision  given  ! 
Oh,  still  th'  enamored  sun  delays, 

And  pries  through  fount  and  crumbling  fane, 
To  win  to  his  adoring  gaze 

Those  children  of  the  sky  again  ! 
Irradiate  beauty,  such  as  never 
That  light  on  other  earth  hath  shone. 
Hath  made  this  land  her  home  forever  ; 

And  could  I  live  for  this  alone — 
Were  not  my  birth-right  brighter  far 
Than  such  voluptuous  slave's  can  be — 
Held  not  the  West  one  glorious  star 

New-born  and  blazing  for  the  free — 
Soared  not  to  heaven  our  eagle  yet — 
Rome,  with  her  Helot  sons,  should  teach  me  to 
forget ! 

Adieu,  oh  father-land  !     I  see 

Your  white  cliffs  on  th'  horizon's  rim, 

And  though  to  freer  skies  I  flee, 

My  heart  swells,  and  my  eyes  are  dim  ! 


g,^  THE   BOSTOxN   BOOK. 

As  knows  the  dove  the  task  you  give  her, 

When  loosed  upon  a  foreign  shore — 
As  spreads  the  rain-drop  in  the  river 

In  which  it  may  have  flowed  before — 
To  England,  over  vale  and  mountain, 

My  fancy  flew  from  climes  more  fair — 
My  blood,  that  knew  its  parent  fountain, 

Ran  warm  and  fast  in  England's  air. 

My  mother  !   in  thy  prayer  to-night 

There  come  new  words  and  warmer  tears  ! 
On  lono-,  lonor  darkness  breaks  the  lisfht — 

Comes  home  the  loved,  the  lost  for  years  ! 
Sleep  safe,  oh  wave-worn  mariner  ! 

Fear  not,  to-night,  or  storm  or  sea ! 
The  ear  of  Heaven  bends  low  to  her  ! 

He  comes  to  shore  who  sails  with  me ! 
The  wind-tost  spider  needs  no  token 

How  stands  the  tree  w'hen  lio-htnincrs  blaze- 
And  by  a  thread  from  heaven  unbroken, 

I  know  my  mother  lives  and  prays  I 

Dear  mother  !  when  our  lips  can  speak — 

When  first  our  tears  will  let  us  see — 
When  I  can  gaze  upon  thy  cheek, 

And  thou,  with  thy  dear  eyes,  on  me — 
'T  \\\\\  be  a  pastime  little  sad 

To  trace  what  weight  time's  heavy  fingers 
Upon  each  other's  forms  have  had — 

For  all  may  flee,  so  feeling  lingers  ! 
But  there's  a  change,  beloved  mother  ! 

To  stir  far  deeper  thoughts  of  thine ; 


LINES   ON  LEAVING   EUROPE.  35 

I  come — but  with  me  comes  another 

To  share  the  heart  once  only  mine  ! 
Thou,  on  whose  thoughts,  when  sad  and  lonely, 

One  star  arose  in  memory's  heaven — 
Thou,  who  hast  watched  one  treasure  only — 

Watered  one  flower  with  tears  at  even — 
Room  in  thy  heart !    The  hearth  she  left 

Is  darkened  to  lend  light  to  ours  ! 
There  are  bright  flowers  of  care  bereft, 

And  hearts  that  languish  more  than  flowers — 
She  was  their  light — their  very  air — 

Room,  mother,  in  thy  heart ! — place  for  her  in 
thy  prayer  ! 


8 


CHARACTER   OF   FRANKLIN. 

By  George  Bancroft. 

In  Boston,  indeed,  where  the  pulpit  had  marshaled 
Quakers  and  witches  to  the  gallows,  one  newspaper, 
the  New  England  Courant,  the  fourth  American  peri- 
odical, was  established,  as  an  organ  of  independent 
opinion,  by  James  Franklin.  Its  temporary  success 
was  advanced  by  Benjamin,  his  brother  and  appren- 
tice, a  boy  of  fifteen,  who  wrote  pieces  for  its  humble 
columns,  worked  in  composing  the  types,  as  well  as 
in  printing  off  the  sheets ;  and  himself,  as  carrier, 
distributed  the  papers  to  tlie  customers.  The  little 
sheet  satirized  hypocrisy,  and  spoke  of  religious 
knaves  as  of  all  knaves  the  worst.  This  was  de- 
scribed as  tending  ''  to  abuse  the  ministers  of  reli- 
gion in  a  manner  which  was  intolerable."  "  I  can 
well  remember,"  writes  Increase  Mather,  then  more 
than  fourscore  years  of  age,  "  when  the  civil  govern- 
ment would  have  taken  an  effectual  course  to  suppress 
such  a  cursed  libel."  In  July  of  the  same  year,  a 
resolve  passed  the  council,  appointing  a  censor  for  the 
press  of  James  Franklin  ;  but  the  house  refused  its 
concurrence.  The  ministers  persevered  ;  and,  in 
January,  1723,  a  committee  of  inquiry  was  raised  by 


CHARACTER  OF  FRANKLIN.  §7 

the  legislature.  Benjamin  Franklin,  being  examined, 
escaped  with  an  admonition  ;  James,  the  publisher, 
refusing  to  discover  the  author  of  the  offence,  was 
kept  in  jail  fur  a  montii  ;  his  paper  was  censured  as 
reflecting  injuriously  on  the  reverend  ministers  of  the 
gospel ;  and,  by  vote  of  the  house  and  council,  he  was 
forbidden  to  print  it,  '^except  it  be  first  supervised." 

Vexed  at  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  the  assembly  ; 
willing  to  escape  from  a  town  where  good  people 
pointed  with  horror  at  his  freedom  ;  indignant,  also,  at 
the  tyranny  of  a  brother,  who,  as  a  passionate  master, 
often  beat  his  apprentice, — Benjamin  Franklin,  then 
but  seventeen  years  old,  sailed  clandestinely  for  New 
York  ;  and,  finding  there  no  employment,  crossed  to 
Amboy  ;  went  on  foot  to  the  Delaware ;  for  want  of 
wind,  rowed  in  a  boat  from  Burlington  to  Philadel- 
phia ;  and,  bearing  marks  of  his  labor  at  the  oar, 
weary,  hungry,  having  for  his  whole  stock  of  cash  a 
single  dollar,  the  runaway  apprentice — greatest  of  the 
sons  of  New  England  of  that  generation,  the  humble 
pupil  of  the  free  schools  of  Boston,  rich  in  the  bound- 
less hope  of  youth  and  the  unconscious  power  of 
genius,  which  modesty  adorned — stepped  on  shore  to 
seek  food,  occupation,  shelter  and  fortune. 

On  the  deep  foundations  of  sobriety,  frugality  and 
industry,  the  young  journeyman  built  his  fortunes  and 
fame  ;  and  he  soon  came  to  have  a  printing  office  of 
his  own.  Toiling  early  and  late,  with  his  own  hands 
he  set  types  and  worked  at  the  press ;  with  his  own 
hands  would  trundle  to  the  office  m  a  wheelbarrow 
the  reams  of  paper  which  he  was  to  use.     His  inge- 


gg  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

nuity  was  such,  lie  could  form  letters,  make  types 
and  wood  cuts,  and  engrave  vignettes  in  copper. 
The  assembly  of  Pennsylvania  respected  his  merit, 
and  chose  him  its  printer.  He  planned  a  newspaper  ; 
and,  when  he  became  its  proprietor  and  editor,  he 
fearlessly  defended  absolute  freedom  of  thought  and 
speech,  and  the  inalienable  power  of  the  people. 
Desirous  of  advancing  education,  he  planned  improve- 
ments in  the  schools  of  Philadelphia  ;  he  invented 
the  system  of  subscription  libraries,  and  laid  the 
foundation  of  one  that  was  long  the  most  considerable 
library  in  America  ;  he  concerted  the  establishment  of 
an  academy,  which  has  ripened  into  a  university  ;  he 
saw  the  benefit  of  union  in  the  pursuit  of  science, 
and  founded  a  philosophical  society  for  its  advance- 
ment. Tlie  intelligent  and  highly  cultivated  Logan 
bore  testimony  to  his  merits  before  they  had  burst 
upon  the  world  : — "  Our  most  ingenious  printer  has 
the  clearest  understanding,  with  extreme  modesty. 
He  is  certainly  an  extraordinary  man," — "  of  a  sin- 
gularly good  judgment,  but  of  equal  modesty," — ''  ex- 
cellent, yet  humble."  "  Do  not  imagine,"  he  adds, 
''  that  I  overdo  in  my  character  of  Benjamin  Frank- 
lin, for  I  am  rather  short  in  it."  When  the  scientific 
world  began  to  investigate  the  wonders  of  electricity, 
Franklin  excelled  all  observers  in  the  marvellous  sim- 
plicity and  lucid  exposition  of  his  experiments,  and 
in  the  admirable  sagacity  with  which  he  elicited  from 
them  the  laws  which  they  illustrated.  It  was  he  who 
first  suggested  the  explanation  of  thunder  gusts  and 
the  northern  lights  on  electrical  principles  ;  and,  in  the 


CHARACTER  OF  FRANKLIN.         39 

sutiimer  of  1752,  going  out  into  the  fields,  with  no 
instrument  but  a  kite,  no  companion  but  his  son,  es- 
tablished his  theory,  by  obtaining  a  line  of  connection 
with  a  thunder  cloud.  Nor  did  he  cease  till  he  had 
made  the  lightning  a  household  pastime,  taught  his 
family  to  catch  the  subtile  fluid  in  its  inconceivably 
rapid  leaps  between  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  com- 
pelled it  to  give  warning  of  its  passage  by  the  harm- 
less ringing  of  bells. 

With  placid  tranquillity,  Benjamin  Franklin  looked 
quietly  and  deeply  into  the  secrets  of  nature.  His 
clear  understanding  was  never  perverted  by  passion, 
or  corrupted  by  the  pride  of  theory.  The  son  of  a 
rigid  Calvinist,  the  grandson  of  a  tolerant  Quaker,  he 
had  from  boyhood  been  familiar  not  only  with  theo- 
logical subtilties,  but  with  a  catholic  respect  for  free- 
dom of  mind.  Skeptical  of  tradition  as  the  basis  of 
faith,  he  respected  reason,  rather  than  authority  ;  and, 
after  a  momentary  lapse  into  fatalism,  escaping  from 
the  mazes  of  fixed  decrees  and  free  will,  he  gained, 
with  increasing  years,  an  increasing  trust  in  the  over- 
ruling providence  of  God.  Adhering  to  none  "of  all 
the  religions "  in  the  colonies,  he  yet  devoutly, 
though  without  form,  adhered  to  religion.  But  though 
famous  as  a  disputant,  and  having  a  natural  aptitude 
for  metaphysics,  he  obeyed  the  tendency  of  his  age, 
and  sought  by  observation  to  win  an  insight  into  the 
mysteries  of  being.  Loving  truth,  without  prejudice 
and  without  bias,  he  discerned  intuitively  the  identity 
of  the  laws  of  nature  with  those  of  which  humanity  is 
conscious  ;  so  that  his  mind  vras  like  a  mirror,  in 
8* 


90  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

which  the  universe,  as  it  reflected  itself,  revealed  her 
laws.  He  was  free  from  mysticism,  even  to  a  fault. 
His  morality,  repudiating  ascetic  severities,  and  the 
system  which  enjoins  them,  was  indulgent  to  appe- 
tites, of  which  he  abhorred  the  sway  ;  but  his  affec- 
tions were  of  a  calm  intensity  :  in  all  his  career,  the 
love  of  man  gained  the  mastery  over  personal  inter- 
est. He  had  not  the  imaginatrion  which  inspires  the 
bard  or  kindles  the  orator  ;  but  an  exquisite  propriety, 
parsimonious  of  ornament,  gave  ease  of  expression 
and  graceful  simplicity  even  to  his  most  careless 
writings.  In  life,  also,  his  tastes  were  delicate.  In- 
different to  the  pleasures  of  the  table,  he  relished  the 
delights  of  music  and  harmony,  of  which  he  enlarged 
the  instruments.  His  blandness  of  temper  and  mod- 
esty, the  benignity  of  his  manners,  made  him  the 
delight  of  intelligent  society ;  and,  with  healthy 
cheerfulness,  he  derived  pleasure  from  books,  from 
philosophy,  from  conversation — now  calmly  adminis- 
lerino^  consolation  to  the  sorrower,  now  induioinor  in 
the  expression  of  light-hearted  gayety.  In  his  inter- 
course, the  universality  of  his  perceptions  bore,  per- 
haps, the  character  of  humor  ;  while  he  clearly  dis- 
cerned the  contrast  between  the  grandeur  of  the  uni- 
verse and  the  feebleness  of  man,  a  serene  benevolence 
saved  him  from  contempt  of  his  race,  or  disgust  at 
its  toils.  To  superficial  observers  he  miglit  have 
seemed  as  an  alien  from  speculative  truth,  limiting 
himself  to  the  world  of  the  senses  ;  and  yet,  in  study, 
and  among  men,  his  mind  always  sought,  with  unaf- 
fected simplicity,  to  discover  and  apply  the  general 


CHARACTER  OF  FRANKLIN.         gi 

principles  by  which  nature  and  affairs  are  controlled — 
now  deducing  from  the  theory  of  caloric  improve- 
ments in  fireplaces  and  lanterns,  and  now  advancing 
human  freedom  by  firm  inductions  from  the  inaliena- 
ble rights  of  man.  Never  professing  enthusiasm, 
never  making  a  parade  of  sentiment,  his  practical 
wisdom  was  sometimes  mistaken  for  the  offspring  of 
selfish  prudence  ;  yet  his  hope  was  steadfast,  like  that 
hope  which  rests  on  the  Rock  of  Ages,  and  his  con- 
duct was  as  unerring  as  though  the  light  that  led  him 
was  a  light  from  heaven.  He  never  anticipated 
action  by  theories  of  self-sacrificing  virtue  ;  and  yet, 
in  the  moments  of  intense  activity,  he,  from  the 
highest  abodes  of  ideal  truth,  brought  down  and  ap- 
plied to  the  affairs  of  life  the  sublimest  principles  of 
goodness,  as  noiselessly  and  unostentatiously  as  be- 
came the  man  who,  with  a  kite  and  hempen  string, 
drew  the  lightning  from  the  skies.  He  separated 
himself  so  little  from  his  age,  that  he  has  been  called 
the  representative  of  materialism  ;  and  yet,  when  he 
tiiought  on  religion,  his  mind  passed  beyond  reliance 
on  sects  to  faith  in  God  ;  when  he  wrote  on  politics, 
he  founded  the  freedom  of  his  country  on  principles 
that  know  no  change ;  when  he  turned  an  observing 
eye  on  nature,  he  passed  always  from  the  effect  to 
the  cause,  from  individual  appearances  to  universal 
laws  ;  when  he  reflected  on  history,  his  philosophic 
mind  found  gladness  and  repose  in  the  clear  anticipa- 
tion of  the  progress  of  humanity. 


PASSING  AWAY."— A   DREAM. 


By  John  Pierpont. 


Was  it  the  chime  of  a  tiny  bell, 

That  came  so  sweet  to  my  dreaming  ear, — 
Like  the  silvery  tones  of  a  fairy's  shell 

That  he  winds  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear, 
When  the  winds  and  the  waves  lie  together  asleep, 
And  the  Moon  and  the  Fairy  are  watching  the  deep, 
She  dispensing  her  silvery  light, 
And  he,  his  notes  as  silvery  quite. 
While  the  boatman  listens  and  ships  his  oar. 
To  catch  the  music  that  comes  from  the  shore  ? — 
Hark  !  the  notes,  on  my  ear  that  play, 
Are  set  to  words  : — as  they  float,  they  say, 

"  Passing  away  I  passing  away  !  " 

But  no  ;  it  was  not  a  fairy's  shell. 

Blown  on  the  beach,  so  mellow  and  clear  ; 
Nor  was  it  the  tongue  of  a  silver  bell. 
Striking  the  hour,  that  filled  my  ear. 
As  I  lay  in  my  dream  ;  yet  was  it  a  chime 
That  told  of  the  flow  of  the  stream  of  time. 
For  a  beautiful  clock  from  the  ceiling  hung. 
And  a  plump  little  girl,  for  a  pendulum,  swung ; 
(As  you've  sometimes  seen,  in  a  little  ring 


"PASSING  AWAY." 


93 


That  hangs  in  his  cage,  a  Canary  bird  swing;) 
And  she  held  to  her  bosom  a  budding  bouquet, 
And,  as  she  enjoyed  it,  she  seemed  to  say, 

"  Passing  away  !   passing  away  !" 

O  how  bright  were  the  wheels,  that  told 

Of  the  lapse  of  time,  as  they  moved  round  slow  ! 
And  the  hands,  as  they  swept  o'er  the  dial  of  gold, 
Seemed  to  point  to  the  girl  below. 
And  lo  !  she  had  changed  : — in  a  few  short  hours 
Her  bouquet  had  became  a  garland  of  flowers. 
That  she  held  in  her  out-stretched  hands,  and  flung 
This  way  and  that,  as  she,  dancing,  swung 
In  the  fulness  of  grace  and  of  womanly  pride. 
That  told  me  she  soon  was  to  be  a  bride  ; — 
Yet  then,  when  expecting  her  happiest  day, 
In  the  same  sweet  voice  I  heard  her  say, 

''  Passing  aw^ay  !   passing  away  !" 

While  T  gazed  at  that  fair  one's  cheek,  a  shade 

Of  thought,  or  care,  stole  softly  over, 
Like  that  by  a  cloud  in  a  summer's  day  made. 
Looking  down  on  a  field  of  blossoming  clover. 
The  rose  yet  lay  on  her  cheek,  but  its  flush 
Had  something  lost  of  its  brilliant  blush  ; 
And  the  light  in  her  eye,  and  the  light  on  the  wheels, 

That  marched  so  calmly  round  above  her, 
Was  a  little  dimmed, — as  when  Evening  steals 

Upon  Noon's  hot  face  : — yet  one  could  n't  but  love  her, 
For  she  looked  like  a  mother  whose  first  babe  lay 
Rocked  on  her  breast,  as  she  swung  all  day  ; — 
And  she  seemed,  in  the  same  silver  tone,  to  say, 
"  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 


94  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

While  yet  I  looked,  what  a  change  there  came  ! 

Her  eye  was  quenched,  and  her  cheek  was  wan 
Stooping  and  staffed  was  her  withered  frame, 
Yet,  just  as  busily,  swung  she  on  ; 
The  garland  beneath  her  had  fallen  to  dust  ; 
The  wheels  above  her  were  eaten  with  rust ; 
The  hands,  that  over  the  dial  swept. 
Grew  crooked  and  tarnished,  but  on  they  kept. 
And  still  there  came  that  silver  tone 
From  the  shrivelled  lips  of  the  toothless  crone, — 
(Let  me  never  forget  till  my  dying  day 
The  tone  or  the  burden  of  her  lay,) — 

'•'  Passing  away  !  passing  away  !" 


FATE   OF   THE  INDIANS. 


By  Joseph  Story. 

There  is,  indeed,  in  the  fate  of  these  unfortunate 
beings,  much  to  awaken  our  sympathy,  and  much  to 
disturb  the  sobriety  of  our  judgment ;  much,  which 
may  be  urged  to  excuse  their  own  atrocities  ;  much 
in  their  characters,  which  betrays  us  into  an  involun- 
tary admiration.  What  can  be  more  melancholy 
than  their  history  ?  By  a  law  of  their  nature,  they 
seem  destined  to  a  slow,  but  sure  extinction.  Every 
where,  at  the  approach  of  the  white  man,  they  fade 
away.  We  hear  the  rustling  of  their  footsteps,  like 
that  of  the  withered  leaves  of  autumn,  and  they  are 
gone  forever.  They  pass  mournfully  by  us,  and  they 
return  no  more.  Two  centuries  ago,  the  smoke  of 
their  wigwams  and  the  fires  of  their  councils  rose  in 
every  valley,  "from  Hudson's  Bay  to  the  farthest 
Florida,  from  the  ocean  to  the  Mississippi  and  the 
lakes.  The  shouts  of  victory  and  the  war-dance 
rang  through  the  mountains  and  the  glades.  The 
thick  arrows  and  the  deadly  tomahawk  whistled 
through  the  forests  ;  and  the  hunter's  trace  and  the 
dark   encampment   startled  the  wild   beasts  in  their 


96 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


lairs.  The  warriors  stood  forth  in  their  glory.  The 
young  listened  to  the  songs  of  other  days.  The  mo- 
thers played  with  their  infants,  and  gazed  on  the 
scene  with  warm  hopes  of  the  future.  The  aged  sat 
down  ;  but  they  wept  not.  They  should  soon  be  at 
rest  in  fairer  regions,  where  the  Great  Spirit  dwelt,  in 
a  home  prepared  for  the  brave,  beyond  the  western 
skies.  Braver  men  never  lived ;  truer  men  never 
drew  the  bow.  They  had  courage,  and  fortitude, 
and  sagacity,  and  perseverance,  beyond  most  of  the 
human  race.  They  shrank  from  no  dangers,  and  they 
feared  no  hardships.  If  they  had  the  vices  of  savage 
life,  they  had  the  virtues  also.  They  were  true  to 
their  country,  their  friends,  and  their  homes.  If  they 
forgave  not  injury,  neither  did  they  forget  kindness. 
If  their  vengeance  was  terrible,  their,  fidelity  and  gen- 
erosity were  unconquerable  also.  Their  love,  like 
their  hate,  stopped  not  on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

But  where  are  they  ?  Where  are  the  villages,  and 
warriors,  and  youth  ;  the  sachems  and  the  tribes ;  the 
hunters  and  their  families  ?  They  have  perished.  They 
are  consumed.  The  wasting  pestilence  has  not  alone 
done  the  mighty  work.  No, — nor  famine,  nor  war. 
There  has  been  a  mightier  power,  a  moral  canker,  which 
hath  eaten  into  their  heart-cores — a  plague,  which  the 
touch  of  the  white  man  communicated — a  poison,  which 
betrayed  them  into  a  lingering  ruin.  The  winds  of 
the  Atlantic  fan  not  a  single  region,  which  they  may 
now  call  their  own.  Already  the  last  feeble  remnants 
of  the  race  are  preparing  for  their  journey  beyond 


FATE  OF  THE  INDIANS.  97 

the  Mississippi.  I  see  them  leave  their  miserable 
homes,  the  aged,  the  helpless,  the  women,  and  the 
warriors,  ''  few  and  faint,  yet  fearless  still."  The 
ashes  are  cold  on  their  native  hearths.  The  smoke 
no  longer  curls  round  their  lowly  cabins.  They  move 
on  with  a  slow,  unsteady  step.  The  white  man  is 
upon  their  heels,  for  terror  or  despatch  ;  but  they 
heed  him  not.  They  turn  to  take  a  last  look  of  their 
deserted  villages.  They  cast  a  last  glance  upon  the 
graves  of  their  fathers.  They  shed  no  tears  ;  they 
utter  no  cries ;  they  heave  no  groans.  There  is 
something  in  their  hearts,  which  passes  speech. 
There  is  something  in  their  looks,  not  of  vengeance 
or  submission  ;  but  of  hard  necessity,  which  stifles 
both ;  which  chokes  all  utterance ;  which  has  no 
aim  or  method.  It  is  courage  absorbed  in  despair. 
They  linger  but  for  a  moment.  Their  look  is  on- 
ward. They  have  passed  the  fatal  stream.  It  shall 
never  be  repassed  by  them — no,  never.  Yet  there 
lies  not  between  us  and  thera  an  impassable  gulf. 
They  know  and  feel,  that  there  is  for  them  still  one 
remove  farther,  not  distant,  nor  unseen.  It  is  to  the 
general  burial-ground  of  the  race. 


<'  HOW  CHEERY  ARE  THE  MARINERS  ! 


By  Park  Benjamin. 

How  cheery  are  the  mariners — 

Those  lovers  of  the  sea  ! 
Their  hearts  are  like  its  yesty  waves, 

As  bounding  and  as  free. 
They  whistle  when  the  storm-bird  wheels 

In  circles  round  the  mast ; 
And  sing  when  deep  in  foam  the  ship 

Ploughs  onward  to  the  blast. 

What  care  the  mariners  for  gales  ? 

There's  music  in  their  roar, 
When  wide  the  berth  along  the  lee. 

And  leagues  of  room  before. 
Let  billows  toss  to  mountain  heights, 

Or  sink  to  chasms  low  ; 
The  vessel  stout  will  ride  it  out. 

Nor  reel  beneath  the  blow. 

With  streamers  down  and  canvass  furled, 

The  gallant  hull  will  float 
Securely,  as  on  inland  lake 

A  silken-tasselled  boat : 


"HOW  CHEERY  ARE  THE  MARINERS!"     99 

And  sound  asleep  some  mariners, 

And  some,  with  watchfid  eyes. 
Will  fearless  be  of  dangers  dark 

That  roll  along  the  skies. 

God  keep  those  cheery  mariners ! 

And  temper  all  the  gales 
That  sweep  against  the  rocky  coast 

To  their  storm-shattered  sails  ; 
And  men  on  shore  will  bless  the  ship 

That  could  so  guided  be, 
Safe  in  the  hollow  of  His  hand, 

To  brave  the  mighty  sea  ! 


A   NEW   ENGLAND   SKETCH. 

By  Harriet  E.  Beecher. 

And  so — I  am  to  write  a  story — but  of  what  and 
where  ?  Shall  it  be  radiant  with  the  sky  of  Italy,  or 
eloquent  with  the  beau  ideal  of  Greece  ?  Shall  it 
breathe  odor  and  languor  from  the  orient,  or  chivalry 
from  the  Occident  ?  or  gayety  from  France,  or  vigor 
from  England  ?  No — no — these  are  all  too  old — too 
story -like — too  obviously  picturesque  for  me.  No — 
let  me  turn  to  my  own  land — my  own  New  England 
— the  land  of  bright  fires  and  strono^  hearts  :  the  land 
of  deeds  and  not  of  words  :  the  land  of  fruits  and 
not  of  flowers  :  the  land  often  spoken  against,  yet 
always  respected — ''  the  latchet  of  whose  shoes  the 
nations  of  the  earth  are  not  worthy  to  unloose." 

Now,  from  this  very  heroic  apostrophe,  you  may 
suppose  that  I  have  something  very  heroic  to  tell. 
By  no  means.  It  is  merely  a  little  introductory 
breeze  of  patriotism,  such  as  occasionally  brushes 
over  every  njind,  bearing  on  its  wings  the  remem- 
brance of  all  we  ever  loved  or  cherished,  in  the  land 
of  our  early  years  ;  and  if  it  should  seem  to  be  rho- 
domontade  to  any  people  on  this  side  of  the  raoun- 


A   NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  ]()1 

tains,  let  them  only  imagine  it  to  be  said  about  ''  Old 
Kentuck,"  or  any  other  corner  of  the  world  in  which 
they  happened  to  be  born,  and  they  will  find  it  quite 
rational,  and  to  the  point. 

But  as  touching  our  story,  it  is  time  to  begin.  Did 
you  ever  see  the  little  village  of  Newbury,  in  Con- 
necticut ?.  I  dare  say  you  never  did  ;  for  it  was  just 
one  of  those  out-of-the-way  places  where  nobody 
ever  came,  unless  they  came  on  purpose — a  green 
little  hollow,  wedged  like  a  bird's  nest  between  half 
a  dozen  high  hills,  that  kept  off  the  wind  and  kept 
out  foreigners  ;  so  that  the  little  place  was  as  strictly 
sui  generis,  as  if  there  were  not  another  in  the  world. 
The  inhabitants  were  all  of  that  respectable  old  stand- 
fast family  who  make  it  a  point  to  be  born,  bred, 
married,  die  and  be  buried,  all  in  the  self-same  spot. 
There  were  just  so  many  houses,  and  just  so  many 
people  lived  in  them  ;  and  nobody  ever  seemed  to  be 
sick  or  to  die  either — at  least  while  I  was  there. 
The  natives  grew  old,  till  they  could  not  grow  older, 
and  then  they  stood  still,  and  lasted  from  generation 
to  generation.  There  was,  too,  an  unchangahility 
about  all  the  externals  of  Newbury.  Here  was  a  red 
house,  and  there  was  a  brown  house,  and  across  the 
way  was  a  yellow  house  ;  and  there  was  a  straggling 
rail  fence  or  a  tribe  of  mullen  stalks  between.  The 
parson  lived  here,  and  squire  Moses  lived  there,  and 
deacon  Hart  lived  under  the  hill,  and  Messrs.  Nadab 
and  Abihu  Peters  lived  by  the  cross-road,  and  the 
old  ^'widder"  Smith  lived  by  the  meeting  housCj 
9* 


IQ2  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

and  Ebenezer  Camp  kept  a  shoe-maker's  shop  on 
one  side,  and  Patience  Mosely  kept  a  milhner's  shop 
in  front ;  and  there  was  old  Comfort  Scran  who  kept 
store  for  the  whole  town,  and  sold  ax-heads,  brass 
thimbles,  liquorice  ball,  fancy  handkerchiefs,  and  every 
thing  else  you  can  think  of.  Here  too  was  a  general 
post  office,  where  you  might  see  letters  marvellously 
folded,  directed  wrong  side  upward,  stamped  with  a 
thimble,  and  superscribed  to  some  of  the  Dollys,  or 
Pollys,  or  Peters,  or  Moseses,  aforenamed,  or  not 
named. 

For  the  rest,  as  to  manners,  morals,  arts  and  sci- 
ences, the  people  in  Newbury  always  went  to  their 
parties  at  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  and  came 
home  before  dark,  always  stopped  all  w^ork  the  minute 
the  sun  was  down  on  Saturday  night,  always  went  to 
meeting  on  Sunday,  had  a  school  house  with  all  the 
ordinary  inconveniences,  were  in  neighborly  charity 
with  each  other,  read  their  Bibles,  feared  their  God, 
and  were  content  with  such  things  as  they  had — the 
best  philosophy,  after  all.  Such  was  the  place  into 
which  Master  James  Benton  made  an  irruption  in  the 
year  eighteen  hundred  and  no  matter  what.  Now 
this  James  is  to  be  our  hero  ;  and  he  is  just  the  hero 
for  a  sensation  ;  at  least  so  you  would  have  thought, 
if  you  had  been  in  Newbury  the  week  after  his  ar- 
rival. Master  James  was  one  of  those  whole-hearted 
energetic  yankees,  who  rise  in  the  world  as  naturally 
as  cork  does  in  the  water.  He  possessed  a  great 
share  of  that  characteristic  national  trait,  so  happily 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  1Q3 

denominated  "  cuteness,"  which  signifies  an  abiHty 
to  do  every  thing  without  trying,  and  to  know  every 
thinfi:  without  learning]:,  and  to  make  more  use  of 
one's  ignorance  than  other  people  do  of  their  knowl- 
edge. This  quahty  in  James  was  mingled  with  an 
elasticity  of  animal  spirits,  a  buoyant  cheerfulness  of 
mind,  which,  though  found  in  the  New  England  char- 
acter, perhaps  as  often  as  any  where  else,  is  not  ordi- 
narily regarded  as  one  of  its  distinguishing  traits. 

As  to  the  personal  appearance  of  our  hero,  we 
have  not  much  to  say  of  it — not  half  so  much  as  the 
girls  in  Newbury  found  it  necessary  to  remark,  the 
first  Sabbath  that  he  shone  out  in  the  meeting  house. 
There  was  a  saucy  frankness  of  countenance,  a  know- 
ing roguery  of  eye,  a  joviality  and  prankishness  of 
demeanor,  that  was  wonderfully  captivating,  espe- 
cially to  the  ladies. 

It  is  true  that  Master  James  had  an  uncommonly 
comfortable  opinion  of  himself,  a  full  faith  that  there 
was  nothing  in  creation  that  he  could  not  learn,  and 
could  not  do  ;  and  this  faith  was  maintained  with  an 
abounding  and  triumphant  joyfulness,  that  fairly  car- 
ried your  sympathies  along  with  him,  and  made  you 
feel  quite  as  much  delighted  with  his  qualifications 
and  prospects,  as  he  felt  himself.  There  are  two 
kinds  of  self-sufficiency — one  is  amusing,  the  other  is 
provoking.  His  was  the  amusing  kind.  It  seemed, 
in  truth,  to  be  only  the  buoyancy  and  overflow  of  a 
vivacious  mind,  delighted  with  every  thing  that  is  de- 
lightful, in  himself  or  others.     He  was  always  ready 


1Q4  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

to  magnify  his  own  praise,  bnt  quite  as  ready  to  exalt 
his  neighbor,  if  the  channel  of  discourse  ran  that  way. 
His  own  perfections  being  more  completely  within  his 
knowledge,  he  rejoiced  in  them  more  constantly  ;  but 
if  those  of  any  one  else  came  within  the  same  range, 
be  was  quite  as  much  astonished  and  edified  as  if  they 
liad  been  his  own. 

Master  James,  at  the  time  of  his  transit  to  the  town 
of  Newbury,  was  only  eighteen  years  of  age  ;  so  that 
it  was  difficult  to  say  which  predominated  in  him 
most — the  boy  or  the  man.  The  belief  that  he 
could,  and  the  determination  that  he  would,  be  some- 
thing in  the  world,  had  caused  him  to  abandon  his 
home,  and  with  all  his  worldly  effects  tied  in  a  blue 
cotton  pocket  handkerchief,  to  proceed  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  Newbury.  And  never  did  stranger  in  yan- 
kee  village  rise  to  promotion  with  more  unparalleled 
rapidity,  or  boast  a  greater  plurality  of  employment. 
He  figured  as  school-master  all  the  week,  and  as 
chorister  on  Sundays,  and  taught  singing  and  reading 
in  the  evenings,  besides  studying  Latin  and  Greek — 
nobody  knew  when — with  the  minister,  thus  fitting 
for  College  while  he  seemed  to  be  doing  every  thing 
else  in  the  world,  besides. 

James  understood  every  art  and  craft  of  popu- 
larity, and  made  himself  mightily  at  home  in  all  the 
chimney  corners  of  the  region  round  about ;  knew 
the  geography  of  every  body's  cider-barrel  and  apple- 
bin — helping  himself  and  every  one  else,  therefrom, 
with  all  bountifulness — rejoicing  in   the  good  things 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.        105 

of  this  life,  devouring  the  old  ladies'  dough-nuts  and 
pumpkin-pies,  with  most  flattering  appetite,  and  ap- 
pearing equally  to  relish  every  body  and  thing  that 
came  in  his  way. 

The  degree  and  versatility  of  his  acquirements 
were  truly  wonderful.  He  knew  all  about  arithmetic 
and  history  ;  and  all  about  catching  squirrels  and 
planting  corn  ;  made  poetry  and  hoe-handles  with 
equal  celerity  ;  wound  yarn  and  took  out  grease  spots 
for  old  ladies,  and  made  nosegays  and  nicknacks  for 
young  ones  ;  caught  trout  Saturday  afternoons,  and 
discussed  doctrines  on  Sundays,  with  equal  adroitness 
and  effect.  In  short.  Master  James  moved  on  through 
the  place 

'^  Victorious, 
Happy  and  glorious/' 

welcomed  and  privileged  by  every  body  in  every 
place  ;  and  when  he  had  told  his  last  ghost  story, 
and  fliirly  flourished  himself  out  of  doors,  at  the 
close  of  a  long  winter's  evening,  you  might  see  the 
hard  face  of  the  good  man  of  the  house  still  phos- 
phorescent with  his  departing  radiance,  and  hear  him 
exclaim,  in  a  paroxysm  of  admiration,  that  "James' 
talk  really  did  beat  all — that  he  was  sartinly  a  most 
miraculous  cretur !" 

It  was  w^onderfuUy  contrary  to  the  buoyant  activity 
of  Master  James'  mind,  to  keep  a  school.  He  had, 
moreover,  so  much  of  the  boy  and  the  rogue  in  his 
composition,  that  he  could  not  be  strict  with  the  ini- 
quities of  the  curly  pates  under  his  charge  ;  and  when 


106 


THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 


he  saw  how  detcnninately  every  little  heart  was  boil- 
ini^  over  with  mischief  and  motion,  he  felt  in  his  soul 
more  disposed  to  join  in  and  help  them  to  a  regular 
frolic,  than  to  lay  justice  to  the  line,  as  was  meet. 
This  would  have  made  a  sad  case,  had  it  not  been 
that  the  activity  of  the  master's  mind  communicated 
itself  to  his  charge,  just  as  the  reaction  of  one  brisk 
little  spring,  will  fill  a  manufactory  with  motion  ;  so 
that  there  was  more  of  an  impulse  towards  study  in 
the  golden  good-natured  day  of  James  Benton,  than 
in  the  time  of  all  that  went  before  or  came  after  him.  , 

But  when  ^'  school  was  out,"  James'  spirit  foamed 
over  as  naturally  as  a  tumbler  of  soda  water,  and  he 
could  jump  over  benches,  and  burst  out  of  doors,  witb 
as  much  rapture  as  the  veriest  little  elf  in  his  com- 
pany. Then  you  might  have  seen  him  stepping 
homeward,  with  a  most  felicitous  expression  of  coun- 
tenance, occasionally  reaching  his  hand  through  the 
fence  for  a  bunch  of  currants,  or  over  it  after  a  sun- 
flower, or  bursting  into  some  back  yard  to  help  an  old 
lady  empty  her  wash  tub,  or  stopping  to  pay  his  de- 
voirs to  aunt  this,  or  mistress  that — for  James  well 
knew  the  importance  of  the  "  powers  that  be,"  and 
always  kept  the  sunny  side  of  the  old  ladies. 

We  shall  not  answer  for  James'  general  flirtations, 
which  were  sundry  and  manifold  ;  for  he  had  just  the 
kindly  heart  that  fell  in  love  with  every  thing  in  femi- 
nine shape  that  came  in  his  way ;  and  if  he  had  not 
been  blessed  with  an  equal  faculty  for  falling  out 
again,  we  do  not  know  what  ever  would  have  become 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.        107 

of  him.  But  at  length  he  came  into  an  abiding  cap- 
tivity, and  it  is  quite  time  that  he  should  ;  for  having 
devoted  thus  much  space  to  the  illustration  of  our  hero, 
it  is  fit  we  should  do  something  in  behalf  of  our  he- 
roine ;  and  therefore  we  must  beg  the  reader's  attention 
while  we  draw  a  diagram  or  two,  that  will  assist  him  in 
gaining  a  right  idea  of  her. 

Do  you  see  yonder  brown  house,  with  its  broad 
roof  sloping  almost  to  the  ground  on  one  side,  and  a 
great  unsupported  sun-bonnet  of  a  piazza  shooting  out 
over  the  front  door  ?  You  must  often  have  noticed  it ; 
you  have  seen  its  tall  well-sweep,  relieved  against  the 
clear  evening  sky,  or  observed  the  feather  beds  and 
bolsters,  lounging  out  of  its  chamber  windows  on  a 
still  summer  morning ;  you  recollect  its  gate  that 
swung  with  a  chain  and  a  great  stone  ;  its  pantry 
window,  latticed  with  little  brown  slabs,  and  looking 
out  upon  a  forest  of  bean  poles.  You  remember  the 
zephyrs  that  used  to  play  among  its  pea-brush,  and 
shake  the  long  tassels  of  its  corn  patch,  and  how 
vainly  any  zephyr  might  essay  to  perform  similar  flir- 
tations with  the  considerate  cabbages,  that  were  sol- 
emnly vegetating  near  by.  Then  there  was  the  whole 
neighborhood  of  purple-leaved  beets,  and  feathery 
carrots  and  parsnips  ;  there  were  the  billows  of  goose- 
berry bushes  rolled  up  by  the  fence,  interspersed  with 
rows  of  quince  trees,  and  far  off  in  one  corner,  was 
one  little  patch  penuriously  devoted  to  ornament, 
which  flamed  with  marigolds,  poppies,  snappers  and 
four-o'clocks.     Then  there  was  a  little  box  by  itself 


108 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


with  one  rose  geranium  in  it,  which  seemed  to  look 
around  the  garden  as  much  Hke  a  stranger  as  a 
French  dancing-master  in  a  yankee  meeting  house. 

This  is  the  dweUing  of  uncle  Timothy  Griswold. 
Uncle  Tim,  as  he  was  commonly  called,.had  a  char- 
acter that  a  painter  would  sketch  for  its  lights  and 
contrasts,  rather  than  its  symmetry.  He  was  a  ches- 
nut  burr,  abounding  with  briars  without,  and  with 
substantial  goodness  within.  He  had  the  strong- 
grained  practical  sense,  the  calculating  worldly  wis- 
dom, of  his  class  of  people  in  New  England ;  he 
had,  too,  a  kindly  heart ;  but  the  whole  stratum  of  his 
character  was  crossed  by  a  vein  of  surly  petulence, 
that,  half  way  between  joke  and  earnest,  colored  every 
thing  that  he  said  and  did. 

If  you  asked  a  favor  of  uncle  Tim,  he   generally 
kept  you  arguing  half  an  hour,  to  prove  that   you 
really  needed  it,  and  to  tell  you  that  he  could  not  all 
the  while  be  troubled  with  helping  one  body  or  an- 
other, all  which  time  you  might  observe  him  regu- 
larly making  his  preparations  to  grant  your  request, 
and  see  by  an  odd  glimmer  of  his  eye,  that  he  was 
preparing  to  let   you  hear  the    "  conclusion  of  the 
whole  matter,"   which  was,  ''  well — well — I  guess — 
I'll  go  on  the  hull — I  'spose  I  must  at  least" — so  off 
he  would  go  and  work  while  the  day  lasted,  and  then 
wind  up  with  a  farewell  exhortation  "  not  to  be  a 
*  callin  '  on  your  neighbors,  when  you  could  get  along 
without."     If  any  of  uncle  Tim's  neighbors  were  in 
any  trouble,  he  was  always   at   hand   to  tell   them 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  209 

'^  that  they  should  n't  a'  done  so,"  that  "  it  was 
strange  they  couldn't  had  more  sense,"  and  then  to 
close  his  exhortations  by  laboring  more  diligently  than 
any,  to  bring  them  out  of  their  difficulties,  groaning  in 
spirit  meanwhile  that  folks  would  make  people  so 
much  trouble. 

"  Uncle  Tim,  father  wants  to  know  if  you  will 
lend  him  your  hoe  to-day  ? "  says  a  little  boy,  mak- 
ing his  way  across  a  corn-field. 

"  Why  don't  your  father  use  his  own  hoe  ? 

'^  Our'n  is  broke." 

"  Broke  !  how  came  it  broke  ? " 

^'  I  broke  it  yesterday,  trying  to  hit  a  squirrel." 

"  What  business  had  you  to  be  hittin'  squirrels  with 
a  hoe  ?  say  ? " 

"  But  father  wants  to  borrow  yours." 

"  Why  don't  he  have  that  mended  ?  It 's  a  great 
pester  to  have  every  body  usin'  a  body's  things." 

"  Well,  I  can  borrow  one  somewhere  else,  I  sup- 
pose," says  the  supplicant.  After  the  boy  has  stum- 
bled across  the  ploughed  ground,  and  is  fairly  over  the 
fence,  uncle  Tim  calls — 

"  Halloo,  there,  you  little  rascal !  what  you  goin' 
off  without  the  hoe  for  ? " 

"  I  didn't  know  as  you  meant  to  lend  it." 

'•'I  didn't  say  I  wouldn't,  did  I?  Here,  come 
and  take  it — stay — I'll  bring  it;  and  do  you  tell 
your  father  not  to  be  a'  lettin'  you  hunt  squirrels  with 
his  hoes  next  time." 

Uncle  Tim's  household  consisted  of  aunt  Sally,  his 
10 


21Q  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

wife,  and  an  only  son  and  daughter ;  the  former,  at 
the  time  our  story  begins,  was  at  a  neighboring  lite- 
rary institution.  Aunt  Sally  was  precisely  as  clever, 
as  easy  to  be  entreated,  and  kindly  in  externals,  as 
her  hel))-mate  was  the  reverse.  She  was  one  of  those 
respectable  pleasant  old  ladies,  whom  you  might  often 
have  met  on  the  way  to  church  on  a  Sunday,  equip- 
ped with  a  great  fan  and  a  psalm-book,  and  carrying 
some  dried  orange  peel,  or  stalk  of  fennel,  to  give  to 
the  children  if  they  were  sleepy  in  meeting. 

She  was  as  cheerful  and  domestic  as  the  tea-kettle 
that  sung  by  her  kitchen  fire,  and  slipped  along  among 
uncle  Tim's  angles  and  peculiarities  as  if  there  never 
was  any  thing  the  matter  in  the  world  ;  and  the  same 
mantle  of  sunshine  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  Miss 
Grace,  her  only  daughter. 

Pretty  in  her  person,  and  pleasant  in  her  ways, 
endowed  with  native  self-possession  and  address,  lively 
and  chatty,  having  a  mind  and  will  of  her  own,  yet 
good  humored  withal.  Miss  Grace  was  a  universal 
favorite.  It  would  have  puzzled  a  city  lady  to  under- 
stand how  Grace,  who  was  never  out  of  Newbury  in 
her  life,  knew  the  way  to  speak,  and  act,  and  behave, 
on  all  occasions,  exactly  as  if  she  had  been  taught 
how.  She  was  just  one  of  those  wild  flowers  which 
you  sometimes  may  see  waving  its  little  head  in  the 
woods,  and  looking  so  civilized  and  garden-like,  that 
you  wonder  if  it  really  did  come  up  and  grow  there 
by  nature.  She  was  an  adept  in  all  household  con- 
cerns; and  there  was  something  so  amazingly  pretty 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  m 

in  her  energetic  way  of  bustling  about,  and  "  putting 
things  to  rights."  Like  most  yankee  damsels,  she 
had  a  longing  after  the  tree  of  knowledge  ;  and  hav- 
ing exhausted  the  literary  fountains  of  a  district  school, 
she  fell  to  reading  whatsoever  came  in  her  way. 
True,  she  had  but  little  to  read  ;  but  what  she  pe- 
rused, she  had  her  own  thoughts  upon  ;  so  that  a 
person  of  information,  in  talking  with  her,  would  feel 
a  constant  wondering  pleasure  to  find  that  she  had  so 
much  more  to  say  of  this,  and  that,  and  the  other 
thing,  than  he  expected. 

-  Uncle  Tim,  like  every  one  else,  felt  the  magical 
brightness  of  his  daughter  ;  and  was  delighted  wuth 
her  praises,  as  might  be  discerned  by  his  often  finding 
occasion  to  remark,  that  he  ''  did  n't  see  why  the 
boys  need  to  be  all  the  lime  a'  comin'  to  see  Grace — ■ 
for  she  was  nothing  so  extror'nary — after  all."  About 
all  matters  and  things  at  home,  she  generally  had  her 
own  way,  while  uncle  Tim  would  scold  and  give  up, 
with  a  regular  good  grace  that  was  quite  creditable. 

"  Father,"  says  Grace,  "  1  want  to  have  a  party 
next  \veek." 

"  You  sha'nt  go  to  havin'  your  parties,  Grace.  I 
always  have  to  eat  bits  and  ends  a  fortnight  after  you 
have  one,  and  I  wont  have  it  so."  And  so  uncle 
Tim  walked  out,  and  aunt  Sally  and  Miss  Grace 
proceeded  to  make  the  cake  and  pies  for  the  party. 

When  uncle  Tim  came  home,  he  saw  a  long  army 
of  pies  and  rows  of  cakes  on  the  kitchen  table. 

"  Grace — Grace — Grace,  I  say  !  what  is  all  this 
here  flummery  for?" 


112 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


"  Why,  it  is  to  eat,  father,"  said  Grace,  with  a 
good  natured  look  of  consciousness. 

Uncle  Tim  tried  his  best  to  look  sour  ;  but  his 
visao-e  beo-an  to  wax  comical  as  he  looked  at  his  merry 
daughter,  so  he  said  nothing,  but  quietly  sat  down  to 
his  dinner. 

"  Father,"  said  Grace,  after  dinner,  "  we  shall 
want  two  more  candlesticks  next  week." 

"  Why,  can't  you  have  your  party  with  what 
you  've  got  ?  " 

"  No,  father,  we  want  two  more." 

"  I  can't  afford  it,  Grace — there  's  no  sort  of  use 
on't — and  you  sha'  n't  have  any." 

*'  Oh,  father,  now  do,"  said  Grace. 

"  I  wont,  neither,"  said  uncle  Tim,  as  he  sallied 
out  of  the  house,  and  took  the  road  to  Comfort  Scran's 
store. 

In  half  an  hour  he  returned  again,  and  fumbling  in 
liis  pocket  and  drawing  forth  a  candlestick,  levelled 
it  at  Grace. 

"  There  's  your  candlestick." 

"  But,  father,  I  said  I  wanted  tioo.^^ 

"  Why  !  can't  you  make  one  do?  " 

"  No,  I  can't — I  must  have  two." 

"  Well,  then — there  's  t'  other — and  here  's  a  fol- 
de-rol  for  you  to  tie  round  your  neck."  So  saying, 
he  bolted  for  the  door  and  took  himself  off  \\ith  all 
speed.  It  was  much  after  this  fashion  that  matters 
commonly  went  on  in  the  brown  house. 

But  having  tarried  long  on  the  way,  we  must  pro- 
ceed with  our  main  story. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH. 


113 


James  thought  Miss  Grace  was  a  glorious  girl ;  and 
as  to  what  Miss  Grace  thought  of  Master  James,  per- 
haps it  would  not  have  been  developed,  had  she  not 
been  called  to  stand  on  tlie  defensive  for  him  with 
uncle  Tim.  For,  from  the  time  that  the  whole  village 
of  Newbury  began  to  be  wholly  given  unto  the  praise 
of  Master  James,  uncle  Tim  set  his  face  as  a  flint 
asjainst  him,  from  the  laudable  fear  of  follow^inff  the 
multitude.  He  therefore  made  conscience  of  stoutly 
gainsaying  every  thing  that  was  said  in  his  favor, 
whicl],  as  James  was  in  high  favor  with  aunt  Sally,  he 
had  frequent  opportunities  to  do. 

So  when  Miss  Grace  perceived  that  uncle  Tim  did 
not  like  our  hero  as  much  as  he  ought  to  do,  she  of 
course  was  bound  to  like  him  well  enough  to  make  up 
for  it.  Certain  it  is,  that  they  were  remarkably  happy 
in  finding  opportunities  of  being  acquainted — that 
James  waited  on  her,  as  a  matter  of  course,  from 
singing  school,  that  he  volunteered  making  a  new 
box  for  her  geranium  on  an  improved  plan,  and  above 
all,  that  he  was  remarkably  particular  in  his  attentions 
to  aunt  Sally — a  stroke  of  policy  which  showed  that 
James  had  a  natural  genius  for  this  sort  of  matters. 
Even  when  emerging  from  the  meeting  house,  in  full 
glory,  with  flute  and  psalm-book  under  his  arm,  he 
would  stop  to  ask  her  how"  she  did ;  and  if  it  was  cold 
weather,  he  would  carry  her  foot-stove  all  the  way 
from  meeting,  discoursing  upon  the  sermon  and  other 
useful  matters,  as  aunt  Sally  observed,  "  in  the  plea- 
santest,  prettiest  way  that  ever  ye  see."  This  flute 
10* 


JJ4  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

was  one  of  the  crying  sins  of  James  in  the  eyes  of 
uncle  Tim.  James  was  particularly  fond  of  it,  be- 
cause he  had  learned  to  play  on  it  by  intuition ;  and 
on  the  decease  of  the  old  pitchpipe,  which  was  slain 
by  a  fall  from  the  gallery,  he  took  the  liberty  to  intro- 
duce the  flute  in  its  place.  For  this  and  other  sins, 
and  for  the  good  reasons  above  named,  uncle  Tim's 
countenance  w^as  not  towards  James,  neither  could  he 
be  moved  to  him-ward  by  any  manner  of  means. 

To  all  aunt  Sally's  good  words  and  kind  speeches, 
he  had  only  to  say  that  "  he  did  n't  like  him — that 
he  hated  to  see  him  a'  manifesting  and  glorifying  there 
in  the  front  gallery,  Sundays,  and  a'  acting  every 
where  as  if  he  was  master  of  all — he  did  n't  like  it, 
and  he  would  n't."  But  our  hero  was  no  whit  cast 
down  or  discomfited  by  the  malcontent  aspect  of  uncle 
Tim.  On  the  contrary,  when  report  was  made  to 
him  of  divers  of  his  hard  speeches,  he  only  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  with  a  vastly  satisfied  air,  and  remarked 
that  "  he  knew  a  thing  or  two,  for  all  that." 

"  Why,  James,"  said  his  companion  and  chief 
counsellor,  "  do  you  think  Grace  hkes  you?" 

"  I  do  n't  know,"  said  our  hero,  with  a  comfortable 
appearance  of  certainty. 

"  But  you  can't  get  her,  James,  if  uncle  Tim  is 
cross  about  it." 

"  Fudge  !  I  can  make  uncle  Tim  like  me.  If  I  've  a 
mind  to  try." 

"  Well,  then,  Jim,  you  '11  have  to  give  up  that  are 
flute  of  yours,  I  tell  ye  now." 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  1J5 

"  Faw,  sol,  law  ;  I  '11  make  him  like  me  and  my 
flute  too." 

"Why,  how '11  ye  doit?" 

"  Oh,  I  '11  work  it,"  said  our  hero. 

"  Well,  Jim,  I  tell  you  now,  you  do  n't  know  uncle 
Tim,  if  you  say  so — for  he  's  jist  the  settest  crittur  in 
his  way  that  ever  ye  see." 

"  I  do  know  uncle  Tim,  though,  better  than  most 
folks — he  's  no  more  cross  than  I  am ;  and  as  to  his 
being  set,  you  've  nothing  to  do  but  make  him  think 
he  's  in  his  own  way  when  he  's  in  yours — that 's  all." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  "  but  ye  see  I  don't  be- 
lieve it." 

"  And  I  '11  bet  you  a  gray  squirrel,  that  I  '11  go 
there  this  very  evening,  and  get  him  to  hke  me  and 
my  flute  both,"  said  James. 

Accordingly  the  late  sunshine  of  that  afternoon 
shone  full  on  the  yellew  buttons  of  James,  as  he  pro- 
ceeded to  the  place  of  conflict.  It  w^as  a  bright, 
beautiful  evening.  A  thunder  storm  had  just  cleared 
away,  and  the  silver  clouds  lay  rolled  up  in  masses 
around  the  setting  sun  ;  the  rain-drops  were  spark- 
lino-  and  winkingr  to  each  other  over  the  ends  of  the 

o  o 

leaves,  and  all  the  blue-birds  and  robins,  breaking 
forth  into  song,  made  the  little  green  valley  as  merry 
as  a  musical  box. 

James'  soul  was  always  overflowing  with  that  kind 
of  poetry  which  consists  in  feeling  unspeakably  happy  ; 
and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  where  he 
was  going,  that  he  should  feel  in  a  double  ecstasy  on 


IIQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

the  present  occasion.  He  stepped  gaily  along,  occa- 
sionally springing  over  a  fence  to  the  right,  to  see 
whether  the  rain  had  swollen  the  trout-brook,  or  to 
the  left,  to  notice  the  ripening  of  Mr.  Somebody's 
water-melons — for  James  always  had  an  eye  on  all 
his  neighbors'  matters,  as  well  as  his  own. 

In  this  way  he  proceeded,  till  he  arrived  at  the 
picket  fence  that  marked  the  commencement  of  uncle 
Tim's  ground.  Here  he  stopped  to  consider.  Just 
then,  four  or  five  sheep  walked  up  and  began  also  to 
consider  a  loose  picket,  which  was  hanging  just  ready 
to  drop  off — and  James  began  to  look  at  the  sheep. 
"  Well,  mister,"  said  he,  as  he  observed  the  leader 
judiciously  drawing  himself  through  the  gap — "  in 
with  you — just  what  I  wanted  " — and  having  waited 
a  moment  to  ascertain  that  all  the  company  were 
likely  to  follow,  he  ran  with  all  haste  towards  the 
house,  and  swinging  open  the  gate,  pressed  all  breath- 
less to  the  door. 

"  Uncle  Tim,  there  's  four  or  five  sheep  in  your 
garden."  Uncle  Tim  dropped  his  whet-stone  and 
scythe. 

"  I  '11  drive  'em  out,  sha'  n't  I  ? "  said  our  hero, 
and  with  that  he  ran  down  the  garden  alley,  and  made 
a  furious  descent  on  the  enemy,  bestirring  himself,  as 
Bunyan  says,  "  lustily  and  with  good  courage,"  till 
every  sheep  had  skipped  out  much  quicker  than  he 
skipped  In  ;  and  then  springing  over  the  fence,  he 
seized  a  great  stone  and  nailed  on  the  picket  so  effec- 
tually, that  no  sheep  could    possibly  encourage  the 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  ]  I7 

hope  of  getting  in  again.  This  was  all  the  work  of 
a  minute  :  and  he  was  back  again,  but  so  exceed- 
ingly out  of  breath,  that  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
stop  a  moment  and  rest  himself.  Uncle  Tim  looked 
ungraciously  satisfied. 

''  What  under  the  canopy  set  you  to  scampering 
so,"  said  he  ;  "  I  could  a'  driv'  out  them  criiturs  my- 
self?" 

"  If  you  're  at  all  particular  about  driving  'em  out 
yourself,  I  can  let  'em  in  again,"  said  James. 

Uncle  Tim  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  sort  of 
twinkle  in  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

"  'Spose  I  must  ask  you  to  walk  in,"  said  he. 

"  Much  obliged,"  said  James,  '^  but  I  am  in  a 
gi'eat  hurry."  So  saying,  he  started  in  very  business- 
like fashion  towards  the  gate. 

''  You  'd  better  just  stop  a  minute." 

"  Can't  stay  a  minute." 

*'  I  do  n't  see  what  possesses  you  to  be  all  the 
while  in  sich  a  hurry  ;  a  body  would  think  you  had 
all  creation  on  your  shoulders  !" 

^'  Just  my  situation,  uncle  Tim,"  said  James, 
swinging  open  the  gate. 

"Well,  at  any  rate,  have  a  drink  of  cider,  can't 
ye  ? "  said  uncle  Tim,  who  was  now  quite  engaged 
to  have  his  own  way  in  the  case. 

James  found  it  convenient  to  accept  this  invita- 
tion, and  uncle  Tim  was  twice  as  good  natured  as  if 
he  had  staid  in  the  first  of  the  matter. 

Once  fairly  forced  into  the  premises,  James  thought 


IIQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

fit  to  forget  his  long  walk  and  excess  of  business, 
especially  as  about  that  moment,  aunt  Sally  and  Miss 
Grace  returned  from  an  afternoon  call.  You  may  be 
sure  that  the  last  thing  these  respectable  ladies  looked 
for,  was  to  find  uncle  Tim  and  Master  James,  tete-a^ 
tete,  over  a  pitcher  of  cider ;  and  when,  as  they  en- 
tered, our  hero  looked  up  with  something  of  a  mis- 
chievous air,  Miss  Grace,  in  particular,  was  so  puzzled 
that  it  took  her  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour  to  untie 
her  bonnet  strings.  But  James  stayed  and  acted  the 
agreeable  to  perfection.  First  he  must  needs  go 
down  into  the  garden  to  look  at  uncle  Tim's  wonderful 
cabbages,  and  then  he  promenaded  all  around  the 
corn  patch,  stopping  every  few  moments  and  looking 
up  with  an  appearance  of  great  gratification,  as  if 
he  never  saw  such  corn  in  his  life  ;  and  then  he 
examined  uncle  Tim's  favorite  apple  tree,  with  an 
expression  of  wonderful  interest. 

"  I  never  !  "  he  broke  forth,  having  stationed  him- 
self against  the  fence  opposite  to  it. 

''  What  kind  of  a  tree  is  that,  uncle  Tim  ?" 

*'It's  a  bell-flower,  or  somethin'  another,"  said 
uncle  Tim,  somewhat  mollified. 

f«  Why — where  did  you  get  it  ?  I  never  saw  such 
apples!"  said  our  hero,  with  his  eyes  still  fixed  on 
the  tree. 

'  Uncle  Tim  pulled  up  a  stalk  or  two  of  weeds  and 
threw  them  over  the  fence,  just  to  show  that  he  did 
not  care  any  thing  about  the  matter,  and  then  he  came 
up  and  stood  by  James. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  U9 

*'  'T  a'nt  notbin'  so  remarkable,  as  I  know  on," 
said  be. 

Just  tben,  Grace  came  to  say  tbat  supper  was 
ready.  Once  seated  at  table,  it  was  astonisbing  to 
see  tbe  perfect  and  smiling  assurance  witb  wbicb  our 
bero  continued  bis  addresses  to  uncle  Tim.  It  some- 
times goes  a  great  way  towards  making  people  like 
us,  to  take  it  for  granted  tbat  tbey  do  already  ;  and 
upon  tbis  principle  James  proceeded.  He  talked, 
laugbed,  told  stories,  and  joked  witb  tbe  most  fearless 
assurance  ;  occasionally  seconding  bis  words  by  look- 
ing uncle  Tim  in  tbe  face  with  a  countenance  so  full 
of  good  will  as  would  bave  melted  any  snow-drift  of 
prejudices  in  tbe  world. 

James  also  bad  one  natural  accomplisbment,  more 
courtier-like  tban  all  tbe  diplomacy  in  Europe  ;  and 
tbat  was,  tbe  gift  of  feeling  a  i'eal  interest  for  any 
body,  in  five  minutes  ;  so  tbat  if  he  began  to  please 
in  jest,  be  generally  ended  in  earnest.  Witb  all  the 
simplicity  of  bis  own  mind,  he  bad  a  natural  tact  for 
seeing  into  others,  and  watched  their  motions  with  the 
same  delight  with  which  a  child  gazes  at  the  wheels 
and  springs  of  a  watch,  "  to  see  what  it  will  do." 

Tbe  rough  exterior  and  latent  kindness  of  uncle 
Tim,  was  quite  a  spirit-stirring  study  ;  and  when  tea 
was  over,  as  be  and  Grace  happened  to  be  standing 
together  in  tbe  front  door,  be  broke  forth, 

"  I  do  really  like  your  father,  Grace  ! " 

"Do  you  really  ?  "  said  Grace. 

-'  Yes,  I  do.  He  has  something  in  him,  and  I  like 
him  all  tbe  better  for  bavins;  to  fish  it  out." 


J  20  THE  BOSTO?4   BOOK. 

"  Well,  I  hope  you  will  make  him  like  you,"  said 
Grace,  unconsciously,  and  then  she  stopped  and 
looked  a  little  abashed. 

James  was  loo  well  bred  to  see  this,  or  look  as  if 
Grace  meant  any  more  than  she  said — a  kind  of 
breeding  not  always  attendant  on  more  fashionable 
polish — so  he  only  answered, 

"  I  think  I  shall,  Grace ;  though  I  doubt  whether 
I  can  get  him  to  own  it." 

"  He 's  the  kindest  man  that  ever  was,"  said 
Grace ;  "  and  he  always  acts  as  if  he  was  ashamed 
of  it." 

James  turned  a  little  away,  and  looked  at  the  bright 
evening  sky,  which  was  glowing  like  a  calm  golden 
sea ;  and  over  it,  was  the  silver  new  moon,  with  one 
little  star  to  hold  the  candle  for  her.  He  shook 
some  bright  drops  off  from  a  rose  bush  near  by,  and 
watched  to  see  them  shine  as  they  fell,  while  Grace 
stood  very  quiedy  waiting  for  him  to  speak  again. 

"  Grace,"  said  he,  at  last,  "  I  am  going  to  college 
this  fall." 

"  So  you  told  me  yesterday,"  said  Grace,  drily. 

James  stooped  down  over  Grace's  geranium,  and 
began  to  busy  himself  with  pulling  off  all  the  dead 
leaves,  remarking  in  the  meanwhile, 

"  And  if  I  do  get  him  to  like  me,  Grace,  will  you 
like  me  too  ?  " 

"  I  like  you  now  very  well,"  said  Grace. 

"  Come,  Grace,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said 
James,  looking  steadfastly  at  the  top  of  the  apple 
tree. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH. 


121 


"  Well — I  wish  then  you  would  understand  what 
I  mean,  without  my  saying  any  more  about  it,"  said 
Grace. 

"  Oh  !  to  be  sure  I  will,"  said  our  hero,  lookino^ 
up  with  a  very  intelligent  air ;  and  so,  as  aunt  Sally 
would  say,  the  matter  was  settled  with  ''no  words 
about  it." 

Now  shall  we  narrate  how  our  hero,  as  he  saw 
uncle  Tim  approaching  the  door,  had  the  impudence 
to  take  out  his  flute,  and  put  the  parts  together, 
screwing  it  round  and  fixing  it  with  great  composure  ! 

'•'  Uncle  Tim,"  said  he,  looking  up,  "  this  is  the 
best  flute  that  most  ever  I  saw." 

''  I  hate  them  tooting  critturs,"  said  uncle  Tim, 
snapping  ly. 

"  I  declare  !  I  wonder  how  you  can  !  "  said  James, 
''  for  I  do  think  they  exceed  " 

So  saying,  he  put  the  flute  to  his  mouth  and  ran  up 
and  down  a  long  flourish. 

"  There  !  what  do  you  think  of  that  ? "  said  he, 
looking  in  uncle  Tim's  face  with  much  delight. 

Uncle  Tim  turned  and  marched  into  the  house,  but 
soon  faced  to  the  right  about,  and  came  out  again. 

James  was  fingering  Yankee  Doodle — that  appro- 
priate national  air  for  the  descendants  of  the  puritans. 

Uncle  Tim's  patriotism  began  to  bestir  itself;  and 
now  if  it  had  been  any  thing,  as  he  said,  but  "  that 
are  flute  " — as  it  was,  he  looked  more  than  once  at 
James'  fingers. 

"  How  under  the  sun  could  you  learn  to  do  that  ? " 

said  he. 

11 


122 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


"  Oh,  it 's  easy  enough,"  said  James,  proceeding 
with  another  tune ;  and  having  played  it  through,  he 
stopped  a  moment  to  examine  the  joints  of  his  flute  ; 
and  in  the  mean  time,  addressed  uncle  Tim — "  You 
can't  think  how  grand  this  is  for  pitching  tunes — I 
always  pitch  the  tunes  Sunday  with  it." 

"  Yes ;  but  I  do  n't  think  it 's  a  right  and  fit  instru- 
ment for  the  Lord's  house,"  said  uncle  Tim. 

"  Why  not  ?  it 's  only  a  kind  of  a  long  pitch-pipe, 
you  see,"  said  James  ;  ''  and  seeing  the  old  one  is 
broken,  and  this  will  answer,  I  do  n't  see  why  it  is  n't 
better  than  nothing." 

"  Why,  yes,  it  may  be  better  than  nothing,"  said 
uncle  Tim  ;  "  but  as  I  always  tell  Grace  and  my  wife, 
it  aint  the  right  kind  of  instrument  after  all ;  it  aint 
solemn." 

"  Oh,  solemn  !  "  said  James,  "  that's  according  to 
how  you  work  it — see  here  now." 

So  saying,  he  struck  up  Old  Hundred,  and  pro- 
ceeded through  it  with  great  perseverance. 

"  There  now,"  said  he. 

"  Well,  well — I  do  n't  know  but  it  is,"  said  uncle 
Tim  ;  "  but  as  I  said  at  first,  I  do  n't  like  the  look  of 
it  in  a  meetin'." 

''But  yet,  you  really  think  it's  better  than  no- 
thing," said  James,  "  for  you  see,  I  could  n't  pitch 
my  tunes  without  it." 

"Maybe  'tis,"  said  uncle  Tim;  "  but  that  aint 
sayin'  much." 

This,  however,  was  enough  for  Master  James,  who 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH. 


123 


soon  after  departed,  with  his  flute  in  his  pocket,  and 
Grace's  last  words  in  his  heart ;  sohloquizing  as  he 
shut  the  gate,  "  there  now,  I  hope  aunt  Sally  wont 
go  to  praising  me  ;  for  just  so  sure  as  she  does,  I 
shall  have  it  all  to  do  over  again." 

James  was  right  in  his  apprehension.  Uncle  Tim 
could  be  privately  converted,  but  not  brought  to  open 
confession  ;  and  when,  the  next  morning,  aunt  Sally 
remarked  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart — ''  Well,  I 
always  knew  you  would  come  to  like  James" — uncle 
Tim  only  responded — ''Who  said  I  did  like  him  ?" 

"  But  I  'm  sure  you  seemed  to  like  him  last  night." 

"  Why,  I  could  n't  turn  him  out  o'  doors,  could  I? 
I  don't  think  nolhin'  of  him  but  what  I  alweys  did." 

But  it  was  to  be  remarked,  that  uncle  Tim  con- 
tented himself,  at  this  time,  with  the  mere  general 
avowal,  without  running  it  into  particulars,  as  w  as  for- 
merly his  wont.  It  was  evident  that  the  ice  had  be- 
gun to  melt,  but  it  might  have  been  a  long  time  in 
dissolving,  had  not  collateral  incidents  assisted. 

It  so  happened  that  about  this  time,  George  Gris- 
wold,  the  only  son  before  referred  to,  returned  to  his 
native  village,  after  having  completed  his  theological 
studies  at  a  neighboring  institution.  It  is  interesting 
to  mark  the  gradual  development  of  mind  and  heart, 
from  the  time  that  the  white-headed,  bashful  boy, 
quits  the  country  village  for  college,  to  the  period 
when  he  returns,  a  formed  and  perfect  man,  to  notice 
how  gradually  the  rust  of  early  prejudices  begins  to 
cleave   from   him — how  his  opinions,  like  bis  hand- 


124  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

writing,  pass  from  the  cramped  and  limited  forms  of  a 
country  school,  into  that  confirmed  and  characteristic 
style  which  is  to  mark  the  man  for  life.  In  George, 
this  change  was  remarkably  striking.  He  was  en- 
dowed by  nature  with  uncommon  acuteness  of  feel- 
ing, and  fondness  for  reflection  : — qualities  as  likely 
as  any,  to  render  a  child  backward  and  uninteresting 
in  early  life. 

When  he  left  Newbury  for  college,  he  was  a  taci- 
turn and  apparently  phlegmatic  boy,  only  evincing 
sensibility  by  blushing,  and  looking  particularly  stu- 
pified,  whenever  any  body  spoke  to  him.  Vacation 
after  vacation  passed,  and  he  returned  more  and  more 
an  altered  being  ;  and  he  who  once  shrunk  from  the 
eye  of  the  deacon,  and  was  ready  to  die  if  he  met 
the  minister,  now  moved  about  among  the  dignitaries 
of  the  place,  with  all  the  composure  of  a  superior 
being. 

It  was  only  to  be  regretted,  that  while  the  mind 
improved,  the  physical  energies  declined,  and  that 
every  visit  to  his  home,  found  him  paler,  thinner,  and 
less  prepared  in  body,  for  the  sacred  profession  to 
which  he  had  devoted  himself.  But  now  he  was 
returned,  a  minister — a  real  minister,  with  a  right  to 
stand  in  the  pulpit  and  preach  ;  and  what  a  joy  and 
glory  to  aunt  Sally — and  to  uncle  Tim,  if  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  own  it. 

The  first  Sunday  after  he  came,  it  was  known  far 
and  near,  that  George  Griswold  was  to  preach  ;  and 
never  was  a  more  ready  and  expectant  audience. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  135 

As  the  time  for  reading  the  first  psalm  approached, 
you  might  see  the  white-headed  men  turning  their 
faces  attentively  towards  the  pulpit  ;  the  anxious  and 
expectant  old  women,  with  their  little  bhick  bonnets, 
bent  forward  to  see  him  rise.  There  were  the  chil- 
dren looking,  because  every  one  else  looked  ;  there 
was  uncle  Tim  in  the  front  pew,  his  face  considerately 
adjusted  ;  there  was  aunt  Sally,  seeming  as  pleased 
as  a  mother  could  seem,  and  Miss  Grace  lifting  her 
sweet  face  to  her  brother,  like  a  flower  to  the  sun  ; 
there  was  our  friend  James,  in  the  front  gallery,  his 
joyous  countenance  a  little  touched  with  sobriety  and 
expectation — in  short,  a  more  embarrassingly  attentive 
audience  never  greeted  the  first  effort  of  a  young  min- 
ister. Under  these  circumstances  there  was  some- 
thinff  touchino-  in  the  fervent  self-foro^etfulness  which 
characterized  tlie  first  efforts  of  the  morning — some- 
thing which  moved  every  one  in  the  house. 

The  devout  poetry  of  his  prayer,  rich  with  the 
orientalism  of  scripture,  and  eloquent  with  the  expres* 
sion  of  strong,  yet  chastened  emotion,  breathed  over 
his  audience  like  music,  hushing  every  one  to  silence, 
and  beguiling  every  one  to  feeling.  In  the  sermon, 
there  was  the  strong  intellectual  nerve,  the  constant 
occurrence  of  argument  and  statement,  which  distin- 
guishes a  New  England  discourse  ;  but  it  was  touched 
with  life,  by  the  intense,  yet  half-subdued  feeling, 
with  which  he  seemed  to  utter  it.  Like  the  rays  of 
the  sun,  it  enlightened  and  melted  at  the  same  mo^ 
ment. 

11* 


lOQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

The  strong  peculiarities  of  New  England  doctrine, 
involving,  as  they  do,  all  the  dark  machinery  of  mind, 
all  the  mystery  of  its  divine  relations  and  future 
progression,  and  all  the  tremendous  uncertainties  of 
its  eternal  good  or  ill,  seemed  to  have  dwelt  in  his 
mind,  to  have  burned  in  his  thoughts,  to  have  wrestled 
with  his  powers,  and  they  gave  to  his  manner,  the 
fervency,  almost,  of  another  world  ;  while  the  ex- 
ceeding paleness  of  his  countenance,  and  a  tremu- 
lousness  of  voice  that  seemed  to  spring  from  bodily 
weakness,  touched  the  strong  workings  of  his  mind 
with  a  pathetic  interest,  as  if  the  being  so  early  ab- 
sorbed in  another  world,  could  not  be  long  for  this. 

When  the  services  were  over,  the  congregation  dis- 
persed with  the  air  of  people  who  felt  rather  than 
heard ;  and  all  the  criticism  that  followed,  was  similar 
to  that  of  deacon  Hart — an  upright,  shrewd  man — 
who,  as  he  lingered  a  moment  at  the  church  door, 
turned  and  gazed  with  unwonted  feeling  at  the  young 
preacher. 

^'  He  's  a  blessed  cretur  1 "  said  he,  the  tears  ac- 
tually making  their  way  to  his  eyes.  "I  ha' n't  been 
so  near  heaven  this  many  a  day.  He  's  a  blessed 
cretur  of  the  Lord — that 's  my  mind  about  him  1 " 

As  for  our  friend  James,  he  was  at  first  sobered, 
then  deeply  moved,  and  at  last,  wholly  absorbed  by 
the  discourse  ;  and  it  was  only  when  meeting  was 
over,  that  he  began  to  think  where  he  really  was. 

"  Well,"  said  he,  "  I  never  was  so  sure  I  had  a 
soul  before  ;  I  '11  be  a  different  man  !  I  know  I  will." 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  JCJT 

With  all  his  versatile  activity,  James  had  a  greater 
depth  of  mental  capacity  than  he  himself  was  aware 
of,  and  he  began  to  feel  a  sort  of  electric  affinity  for 
a  mind  that  had  touched  him  in  a  way  so  new  ;  and 
when  he  saw  the  mild  njinister  standing  at  the  foot  of 
the  pulpit  stairs,  he  made  directly  towards  him. 

^'  I  do  want  to  hear  you  talk  more,"  said  he,  with 
a  face  full  of  earnestness  ;  "  may  I  walk  home  with 
you." 

"  It 's  a  long  and  warm  walk,"  said  the  ministePj 
smiling. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  care  for  that,  if  it  does  not  trouble 
yo?/,"  said  James  ;  and  leave  being  gained,  you 
might  have  seen  them  slowly  passing  along  under  the 
trees,  James  pouring  forth  all  the  floods  of  inquiry 
which  the  sudden  impulse  of  his  mind  had  brought 
out,  and  supplying  his  guide  with  more  questions 
and  problems  for  solution,  than  he  could  have  gone 
through  with  in  a  month. 

"  I  cannot  answer  all  your  questions  now,"  said  he, 
as  they  stopped  at  uncle  Tim's  gate. 

^'  Well,  then,  when  will  you  ?"  said  James,  eagerly. 
"  Let  me  come  home  with  you  to-night." 

The  good  man  smiled  assent,  and  James  departed 
so  full  of  new  thoughts,  that  he  passed  Grace  without 
even  seeing  her.  From  that  time  a  friendship  com- 
menced between  the  two,  which  was  a  beautiful  illus- 
tration of  the  affinity  of  opposites.  It  was  like  a 
friendship  between  morning  and  evening — all  fresh- 
ness and  sunshine  on  one  side,  and  all  gentleness  and 
peace  on  the  other. 


228  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

The  young  minister,  worn  by  long-continued  ill 
health,  by  the  fervency  of  his  own  feelings,  and  the 
gravity  of  his  own  reasonings,  found  pleasure  in  the 
healthful  buoyancy  of  a  youthful,  unexhausted  mind, 
while  James  felt  himself  sobered  and  made  better  by 
the  moonlight  tranquillity  of  his  friend.  It  is  one 
mark  of  a  superior  mind,  to  understand  and  be  influ- 
enced by  the  superiority  of  others ;  and  this  was  the 
case  with  James.  The  ascendency  which  his  new 
friend  acquired  over  him  was  unlimited,  and  did  more 
in  a  month  towards  consolidating  and  developing  his 
character,  than  all  the  four  years'  course  of  a  college. 
Our  religious  habits  are  likely  always  to  retain  the 
impression  of  the  first  seal  which  stamped  them;  and 
in  this  case  it  was  a  peculiarly  happy  one.  The 
calmness,  the  settled  purpose,  the  mild  devotion  of 
his  friend,  formed  a  just  alloy  to  the  energetic  and 
reckless  buoyancy  of  James'  character,  and  awakened 
in  him  a  set  of  perceptions,  without  which  the  most 
vigorous  mind  must  be  incomplete. 

The  effect  of  the  ministrations  of  the  young  pastor, 
in  awaking  attention  to  the  subjects  of  his  calling  in 
the  village,  was  marked,  and  of  a  kind  which  brought 
pleasure  to  his  own  heart.  But  like  all  other  excite- 
ment, it  tends  to  exhaustion  ;  and  it  was  not  long  be- 
fore he  sensibly  felt  the  decline  of  the  powers  of  life. 
To  the  best  regulated  mind,  there  is  something  bitter 
in  the  relinquishment  of  projects  for  which  we  have 
been  long  and  laboriously  preparing,  and  there  is 
something  far  more  bitter  in  crossing  the  long-cher- 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.        jgg 

ished  expectations  of  friends.  All  this  George  felt. 
He  could  not  bear  to  look  on  bis  rnotber,  bantjinor  on 
his  words,  and  following  bis  steps  witb  eyes  of  almost 
childisb  deligbt ;  on  bis  singular  fatber,  wbose  wbole 
eartbly  ambition  was  bound  up  in  bis  success,  and 
think  bow  soon  tbe  ''  candle  of  their  old  age  "  must 
be  put  out.  When  be  returned  from  a  successful 
effort,  it  was  painful  to  see  tbe  old  man  so  evidently 
delighted,  and  so  anxious  to  conceal  bis  triumph,  as 
be  would  seat  himself  in  his  chair,  and  begin  with— 

"  George,  that  are  doctrine  is  ratlier  of  a  puzzler; 
but  you  seem  to  think  you  've  got  tbe  run  on't.  I 
should  re'ly  like  to  know  what  business  you  have  to 
think  you  know  better  than  other  folks  about  it;" 
and  though  he  would  cavil  most  courageously  at  all 
George's  explanations,  yet  you  might  perceive  through 
all,  that  he  was  only  uplifted  to  hear  bow  bis  boy 
could  talk. 

If  George  was  enoraojed  in  aro^urnent  witb  any  one 
else,  he  would  sit  by,  with  his  bead  bowed  down, 
looking  out  from  under  his  shaggy  eye-brows,  with  a 
shame-faced  satisfaction  very  unusual  with  him.  Ex- 
pressions of  affection  from  the  naturally  gentle,  are 
not  half  so  touching  as  those  which  are  forced  out 
from  the  hard-favored  and  severe  ;  and  George  was 
affected,  even  to  pain,  by  the  evident  pride  and  re- 
gard of  his  father. 

"  He  never  said  so  much  to  any  body  before," 
thought  he  ;  "  and  what  will  he  do  if  I  die  ?" 

In  such  thoughts  as  these,  Grace  found  her  brother 


130  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

engaged  one  still  autumn  morning,  as  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  garden  fence. 

*'  What  are  you  solemnizing  here  for  this  bright 
day,  brother  George?"  said  she,  as  she  bounded 
down  the  alley. 

The  young  man  turned  and  looked  on  her  happy 
face  with  a  sort  of  twilight  sniile. 

"  How  happy  you  are,  Grace ! "  said  he. 

^'  To  be  sure  I  am  !  and  you  ought  to  be  too, 
because  you  are  better." 

"  I  am  happy,  Grace — that  is,  I  hope  I  shall  be." 

"  You  are  sick,  I  know  you  are,"  said  Grace ; 
^'  you  look  worn  out.  Oh,  I  wish  your  heart  could 
spring  once  as  mine  does." 

"  I  am  not  well,  dear  Grace,  and  I  fear  I  never 
shall  be,"  said  he,  turning  away,  and  fixing  his  eyes 
on  the  Hiding  trees  opposite. 

"Oh,  George!  dear  George!  don't,  don't  say 
that ;  you  '11  break  all  our  hearts,"  said  Grace,  with 
tears  in  her  own  eyes. 

"  Yes — but  it 's  true,  sister.     I  do  n't  feel  It  on  my 

own  account  so  much  as However,"  he  added, 

"  it  will  all  be  the  same  in  heaven." 

It  was  but  a  week  after  this,  that  a  violent  cold 
hastened  the  progress  of  debility  into  a  confirmed 
malady.'  He  sunk  very  fast.  Aunt  Sally,  with  the 
self-deceit  of  a  fond  and  cheerful  heart,  thought  every 
day  that  "he  ivouhl  be  better;"  and  uncle  Tim 
resisted  conviction  with  all  the  obstinate  pertinacity 
of  his  character,  while  the  sick  man  felt  that  he  had 
not  the  heart  to  undeceive  them. 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.        J31 

James  was  now  at  the  house  every  day,  exhausting 
all  his  energy  and  invention  in  the  case  of  his  friend  ; 
and  any  one  who  had  seen  him  in  his  hours  of  reck- 
lessness and  glee,  could  scarcely  recognize  him  as 
the  being  whose  step  was  so  careful,  whose  eye  so 
watchful,  whose  voice  and  touch  were  so  gentle,  as 
he  moved  around  the  sick  bed.  But  the  same  quick- 
ness which  makes  a  mind  buoyant  in  gladness,  often 
makes  it  gentlest  and  most  sympathetic  in  sorrow. 

It  was  now  nearly  morning  in  the  sick  room. 
George  had  been  restless  and  feverish  all  night,  but 
towards  day  he  fell  into  a  light  slumber,  and  James 
sat  by  his  side,  almost  holding  his  breath,  lest  he 
should  waken  him.  It  was  yet  dusk,  but  the  sky  was 
brightening  with  a  solemn  glow,  and  the  stars  were 
beginning  to  disappear — all,  save  the  bright  and 
morning  one,  which,  standing  alone  in  the  east,  looked 
tenderly  through  the  casement,  like  the  eye  of  our 
Heavenly  Father,  watching  over  us  when  all  earthly 
friendships  are  fading. 

George  awoke  with  a  placid  expression  of  counte- 
nance ;  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  brightening  sky^ 
murmured  faintly, 

"  The  sweet  immortal  morning  sheds 
Its  blushes  round  the  spheres." 

A  moment  after,  a  shade  passed  over  his  face,  he 
pressed  his  fingers  over  his  eyes,  and  the  tears  dropped 
silently  on  his  pillow. 

"  George  !  dear  George  1 "  said  James,  bending 
over  him* 


J32  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  It 's  my  friends — it 's  my  father — my  mother," 
said  he  faintly. 

^' Jesus  Christ  will  watch  over  them,"  said  James, 
soothingly. 

*'  Oh,  yes,  I  know  he  will  ;  for  he  loved  his  own, 
which  were  in  the  world  ;  he  loved  them  unto  the 
end.  But — ^I  am  dying — and  before  I  have  done  any 
good." 

^'  Oh,  do  not  say  so,"  said  James  ;  "  think,  think 
what  you  have  done,  if  only  for  me.  God  bless  you 
for  it !  God  ivill  bless  you  for  it ;  it  will  follow  you  to 
heaven — it  will  bring  me  there.  Yes,  I  will  do  as 
you  have  taught  me.  I  will  give  my  life,  my  soul, 
my  whole  strength  to  it ;  and  then  you  will  not  have 
lived  in  vain." 

George  smiled  and  looked  upward ;  "  his  face  was 
as  that  of  an  angel,"  and  James,  in  his  warmth,  con- 
tinued— 

^'  It  is  not  I  alone  who  can  say  this :  we  all  bless 
you ;  every  one  in  this  place  blesses  you  ;  you  will 
be  had  in  everlasting  remembrance  by  some  hearts 
here,  I  know." 

"Bless  GotZ/"  said  George. 

"  We  do,"  said  James.  "/  bless  him  that  I  ever 
knew  you ;  we  all  bless  him,  and  we  love  you,  and 
shall  forever." 

The  glow  that  had  kindled  over  the  pale  face  of 
the  invalid,  again  faded,  as  he  said — "  But,  James,  I 
must,  I  ought  to  tell  my  father  and  mother — I  ought 
to,  and  how  can  I  ?" 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH. 


133 


At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  uncle  Tim 
made  his  appearance.  He  seemed  struck  with  the 
paleness  of  George's  face ;  and  coming  to  the  side  of 
the  bed,  he  felt  his  pulse,  and  laid  his  hand  anxiously 
on  his  forehead,  and  clearing  his  voice  several  times, 
inquired  ^'  if  he  did  n't  feel  a  little  better." 

"  No,  father,"  said  George  ;  then  taking  his  hand, 
he  looked  anxiously  in  his  fjice,  and  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate a  moment.  "  Father,"  he  began,  "  you  know 
that  we  ought  to  submit  to  God." 

There  was  something  in  his  expression  at  this 
moment,  which  flashed  the  truth  into  the  old  man's 
mind  ;  he  dropped  his  son's  hand  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  agony,  and  turning  quickly,  left  the  room, 

"  Father  !  father  ! "  said  Grace,  trying  to  rouse 
him,  as  he  stood  with  his  arms  folded  by  the  kitchen 
window. 

^'  Get  away,  child,"  said  he,  roughly. 

"  Father,  mother  says  breakfast  is  ready." 

"  I  do  n't  want  any  breakfast,"  said  he,  turning 
short  about.  "  Sally,  v/hat  are  you  fixing  in  that  are 
little  porringer?" 

"  Oh,  it's  only  a  little  tea  for  George — 't  will  com- 
fort him  up  and  make  him  feel  better,  poor  fellow." 

"  You  w^ont  make  him  feel  better — he  's  gone," 
said  uncle  Tim,  hoarsely. 

"  Oh,  dear  heart  I  no  !  "  said  aunt  Sally. 
:  "  Be  still  a  contradicting  me  ;  I  wont  be  contra- 
dicted all  the  time  by  nobody  !  The  short  of  the 
case  is,  that  George  is  goin'  to  die  just  as  we  've  got 
him  ready  to  be  a  minister  and  all ;  and  1  wish  to  pity 
12 


134  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

I  was  in  my  grave  myself,  and  so," — said  uncle  Tim^ 
as  he  plunged  out  of  the  door  and  shut  it  after  him. 

It  is  well  for  man  that  there  is  one  Being  who  sees 
the  suffering  heart  as  it  is,  and  not  as  it  manifests 
itself  through  the  repellancies  of  outward  infirmity  ; 
and  who  perhaps  feels  more  for  the  stern  and  way- 
ward, than  for  those  whose  gentler  feelings  win  for 
them  human  sympathy.  With  all  his  singularities, 
there  was  in  the  heart  of  uncle  Tim,  a  depth  of  reli- 
gious sincerity  ;  but  there  are  few  characters  where 
religion  does  any  thing  more  than  struggle  with  natu- 
ral defect,  and  modify  what  would  else  be  far  worse. 

In  this  hour  of  trial,  all  the  native  obstinacy  and 
pertinacity  of  the  old  man's  character  rose  ;  and  while 
he  felt  the  necessity  of  submission,  it  seemed  impos- 
sible to  submit ;  and  thus  reproaching  himself,  strug- 
gling in  vain  to  repress  the  murmurs  of  nature,  repul- 
sing from  him  all  external  sympathy,  his  mind  was 
"  tempest-tost,  and  not  comforted." 

It  was  on  the  still  afternoon  of  the  following 
Sabbath  that  he  was  sent  for,  in  haste,  to  the 
chamber  of  his  son.  He  entered,  and  saw  that  the 
hour  was  come.  The  family  were  all  there.  Grace 
and  James,  side  by  side,  bent  over  the  dying  one, 
and  his  mother  sat  afar  off,  with  her  face  hid  In  her 
apron,  "  that  she  might  not  see  the  death  of  the 
child."  The  aged  minister  was  there,  and  the  Bible 
lay  open  before  him.  The  father  walked  to  the  side 
of  the  bed.  He  stood  still  and  gazed  on  that  face 
now  brightening  with  ''  life  and  immortality."  The 
son  lifted  up  his  eyes  :  he  saw  his  father — smiled, 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.        I35 

and  put  out  his  hand.     "  I  am  glad  you  are  come," 
said  he. 

"Oh,  George — to  the  pity,  don't!  donH  smile 
on  me  so  !  I  know  what  is  coming — I  have  tried 
and  tried,  and  I  canH — I  cmiH  have  it  so" — and  the 
old  man  sunk  by  the  side  of  the  bed — he  covered  his 
face — his  frame  shook — and  he  sobbed  audibly.  The 
room  was  still  as  death — there  was  none  that  seemed 
able  to  comfort  him. 

At  last,  the  son  repeated  in  a  sweet,  but  interrupted 
voice,  those  words  of  man's  best  Friend — "  Let  not 
your  heart  be  troubled  ;  in  my  Father's  house  are 
many  mansions." 

"  Yes — but  I  canH  help  being  troubled — I  suppose 
the  Lord's  will  must  be  done — but  it'll  kill  me." 

"  Oh,  father,  don't  break  my  heart,"  said  the  son, 
much  agitated.  "  I  shall  see  you  again  in  heaven, 
and  you  shall  see  me  again  ;  and  then  '  your  heart 
shall  rejoice,  and  your  joy  no  man  taketh  from  you.'  '* 

"  I  never  shall  get  to  heaven,  if  I  feel  as  I  do  now," 
said  the  old  man.     "  I  cannot  have  it  so." 

The  mild  face  of  the  sufferer  was  overcast.  "  I 
wish  he  saw  all  that  /  do,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice  ; 
then  looking  towards  the  minister,  he  articulated — 
"  Pray  for  us." 

They  knelt  in  prayer.  It  was  soothing,  as  real 
prayer  always  must  be  ;  and  when  they  rose,  every 
one  seemed  more  calm.  But  the  sufferer  was  ex- 
hausted— his  countenance  changed — he  looked  on 
his  friends — there  was  a  faint  whisper, — '^  Peace  I 
leave  with  you  " — and  he  was  in  heaven. 


ia6 


THE  BOSTO?^  BOOK. 


We  need  not  dwell  on  what  followed.  The  seed 
sown  by  the  righteous,  often  blossoms  over  their 
grave  ;  and  so  was  it  with  this  good  man  ;  the  words 
of  peace  which  he  spake  unto  his  friends  while  he 
was  yet  with  them,  came  into  remembrance  after  he 
was  gone  ;  and  though  he  was  laid  in  the  grave  with 
many  tears,  yet  it  was  with  softened  and  submissive 
hearts. 

"  The  Lord  bless  him,"  said  uncle  Tim,  as  he 
and  James  were  standing,  last  of  all,  over  the  grave. 
"  I  believe  my  heart 's  gone  to  heaven  with  him  ; 
and  I  think  the  Lord  really  did  know  what  was  best, 
after  all." 

Our  friend  James  seemed  now  to  become  the  sup- 
port of  the  family ;  and  the  bereaved  old  man  uncon- 
sciously began  to  transfer  to  him  the  affections  that 
had  been  left  vacant. 

"  James,"  said  he  to  him  one  day,  "  I  suppose 
you  know  that  you  are  about  the  same  to  me  as 
a  son." 

"  I  hope  so,  uncle  Tim,"  said  James,  kindly. 

"  Well,  well,  you  '11  go  to  college  next  week,  and 
none  o' y'r  keepin'  school  to  get  along.  I've  got 
enough  to  bring  you  safe  out — that  is,  if  you  '11  be 
car' fill  and  stiddy.^' 

James  knew  the  heart  too  well  to  refuse  a  favor  In 
which  the  poor  old  man's  mind  was  comforting  itself; 
he  had  the  self-command  to  abstain  from  any  extra- 
ordinary expressions  of  gratitude,  but  took  it  kindly, 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

''  Dear  Grace,"  said  he  to  her,  the  last  evening 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  I37 

before  he  left  home,  "  I  am  changed  ;  we  are  both 
altered,  since  we  first  knew  each  other ;  and  now  I 
am  going  to  be  gone  a  long  time,  but  I  am  sure  " 

He  stopped  to  arrange  his  thoughts. 

"  Yes,  you  may  be  sure  of  all  those  things  that 
you  wish  to  say,  and  cannot,"  said  Grace. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  James  ;  then  looking  thought- 
fully, he  added  : 

"  God  help  me.  I  believe  I  have  mind  enough  to 
be  what  I  mean  to  ;  but  whatever  I  am  or  have,  shall 
be  given  to  God  and  my  fellow-men  ;  and  then, 
Grace,  your  brother  in  heaven  will  rejoice  over  me." 

"  I  believe  he  does  now,"  said  Grace.  ^'  God 
bless  you,  James;  I  don't  know  what  would  have 
become  of  us,  if  you  had  not  been  here." 

"  Yes,  you  will  live  to  be  like  him,  and  to  do  more 
good,"  she  added,  her  face  brightening  as  she  spoke, 
till  James  thought  that  she  really  must  be  right. 

It  was  five  years  after  this,  that  James  was  spoken 
of  as  an  eloquent  and  successful  minister  in  the  town 
of  C ,  and  was  settled  in  one  of  its  most  influ- 
ential villages.  Late  one  autumn  evening,  a  tall,  bony, 
hard-favored  man  was  observed  making  his  way  into 
the  outskirts  of  the  place. 

"  Halloo,  there  ! "  he  called  to  a  man  over  the 
other  side  of  a  fence  ;  "  what  town  is  this  ere  ? " 

"  It 's  Farmington,  sir." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  know  if  you  know  any  thing  of 
a  boy  of  mine  that  lives  here  ? " 

"  A  boy  of  yours — who  ? " 
12* 


138  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"Why,  I  Ve  got  a  boy  here  that's  livin'  on  the 
town,  and  I  thought  I  'd  jest  look  him  up." 

"  I  do  n't  know  any  boy  that 's  Hvin'  on  the  town  ; 
what 's  his  name  ?  " 

"  Why,"  said  the  old  man,  pushing  his  hat  off 
from  his  forehead,  "  I  believe  they  call  him  James 
Benton." 

"  James  Benton !  why,  that's  our  minister's  name." 

"  Oh,  wal,  1  believe  he  is  the  minister,  come  to 
think  on  't.  He 's  a  boy  o'  mine,  tho'.  Where  does 
he  live?" 

"  In  that  white  house  that  you  see  set  back  from 
the  road  there,  with  all  those  trees  round  it." 

At  this  instant,  a  tall,  manly-looking  person  ap- 
proached from  behind.  Have  we  not  seen  that  face 
before  ?  It  is  a  touch  graver  than  of  old,  and  its  lines 
have  a  more  thoughtful  significance  ;  but  all  the  viva- 
city of  James  Benton  sparkles  in  that  quick  smile,  as 
his  eye  falls  on  the  old  man. 

"  I  thought  you  could  not  keep  away  from  us  long," 
said  he,  with  the  prompt  cheerfulness  of  his  boyhood, 
and  laying  hold  of  both  uncle  Tim's  hard  hands. 

They  approached  the  gate  ;  a  bright  face  glances 
past  the  window,  and  in  a  moment  Grace  is  at  the 
door. 

"Father!  dear  father!" 

"  You  'd  letter  make  believe  be  so  glad,"  said 
uncle  Tim,  his  eyes  glistening  as  he  spoke. 

"  Come,  come,  father ;  I  'm  used  to  authority  in 
these  days,"  said  Grace,  drawing  him  towards  the 
house  ;    "  so  no  disrespectful  speeches — and  now  I 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SKETCH.  I39 

shall  fall  upon  and  seize  this  great  coat,  and  away 
with  your  hat,  and  then  you  must  sit  down  in  this 
great  chair." 

"  So,  ho !  Miss  Grace,"  said  uncle  Tim,  ^'  you  are 
at  your  old  tricks,  ordering  round  as  usual.  Well,  if 
I  must,  I  must ;"  so  down  he  sat. 

"  Father,"  said  Grace,  as  he  was  leaving  them, 
after  a  few  days'  stay,  "  it 's  Thanksgiving  day  next 
month,  and  you  and  mother  must  come  and  stay  with 
us." 

Accordingly,  the  following  month  found  aunt  Sally 
and  uncle  Tim  by  the  minister's  fire-side,  delighted 
witnesses  of  the  Thanksgiving  presents  which  a  willing 
people  were  pouring  in  ;  and  the  next  day  they  had 
once  more  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  son  of  theirs  in 
the  sacred  desk,  and  hearing  a  sermon  that  every 
body  said  was  the  "  best  he  ever  preached  ;"  and  it 
is  to  be  remarked,  by-the-by,  that  this  was  the  stand- 
ing commentary  on  all  James'  discourses,  so  that  it 
was  evident  that  he  was  "  going  on  unto  perfection." 

"  There's  a  great  deal  that's  worth  havin'  in  this 
ere  life,  a'rter  all,"  said  uncle  Tim,  as  he  sat  musing 
over  the  coals  of  the  bright  evening  fire  of  that  day  ; 
'^  that  is,  if  we  'd  only  taJce  it  when  the  Lord  lays  it 
in  our  way." 

"  Yes,"  said  James,  "  and  let  us  only  take  it  as 
tve  should,  and  this  life  will  be  cheerfulness,  and  the 
next,  fulness  o^  py  J ^ 


ON  A  VERY  OLD  WEDDING  RING. 

The  device — two  hearts  united. 

The  motto — ^^  Dear  love  of  mine,  my  heart  is  thine.'" 

By  George  W.  Doane. 

I  LIKE  that  ring,  that  ancient  ring, 

Of  massive  form  and  virgin  gold. 
As  firm,  as  free  from  base  alloy. 

As  were  the  sterling  hearts  of  old. 
I  like  it — for  it  wafts  me  back. 

Far,  far  along  the  stream  of  time. 
To  other  men,  and  other  days — 

The  men  and  days  of  deeds  sublime. 
But  most  I  like  it  as  it  tells 

The  tale  of  well  requited  love  ; 
How  youthful  fondness  persevered. 

And  youthful  faith  disdained  to  rove  ; — 
How  warmly  he  his  suit  preferred. 

Though  she,  unpitying,  long  denied. 
Till,  softened  and  subdued,  at  last 

He  won  his  fair  and  blooming  bride  ; — 
How,  till  the  appointed  day  arrived. 

They  blamed  the  lazy-footed  hours  ; — 
How  then  the  white-robed  maiden  train 

Strewed  their  glad  way  with  freshest  flowers ; 
And  how,  before  the  holy  man. 

They  stood  in  all  their  youthful  pride,    , 


ON  A  VERY  OLD  WEDDING  RING.  141 

And  spoke  those  words,  and  vowed  those  vows 

Which  bind  the  husband  to  his  bride. 
All  this  it  tells  ; — the  plighted  troth, 

The  gift  of  every  earthly  thing, 
The  hand  in  hand,  the  heart  in  heart — 

For  this  I  like  that  ancient  ring. 
I  like  its  old  and  quaint  device  ; 

Two  blended  hearts — though  time  may  wear  them, 
No  mortal  change,  no  mortal  chance, 

"  Till  death,"  shall  e'er  in  sunder  tear  them. 
Year  after  year,  'neath  sun  and  storm. 

Their  hopes  in  heaven,  their  trust  in  God, 
In  changeless,  heartfelt,  holy  love, 

These  two,  the  world's  rough  pathways  trod. 
Age  might  impair  their  youthful  fires, 

Their  strength  might  fail,  'mid  life's  bleak  weather, 
Still,  hand  in  hand,  they  travelled  on, — 

Kind  souls  !  they  slumber  now  together. 
I  like  its  simple  posy  too  ; 

"  Mine  own  dear  love,  this  heart  is  thine  !" 
Thine,  when  the  dark  storm  howls  along, 

As  when  the  cloudless  sunbeams  shine. 
*'  This  heart  is  thine,  mine  own  dear  love  1" 

Thine,  and  thine  only,  and  forever ; 
Thine,  till  the  springs  of  life  shall  fail — 

Thine,  till  the  chords  of  life  shall  sever 
Remnant  of  days  departed  long. 

Emblem  of  plighted  troth  unbroken, 
Pledge  of  devoted  faithfulness, 

Of  heartfelt,  holy  love,  the  token — 
What  varied  feelings  round  it  cling  ! 
For  these,  I  like  that  ancient  ring, 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 


By  N.  p.  Willis. 


Tickler.    I  will  accompany  you  on  the  poker  and  tongs. 

Shepherd.  I  hae  nae  objections — for  you  've  not  only  a  sowl  for 
music,  sir,  but  a  genius,  too,  and  the  twa  dinna  always  gang  thcgither— 
mony  a  man  haein'  as  fine  an  ear  for  tunes,  as  the  starnies  on  a  dewy 
nicht  that  listen  to  the  grass  growin'  roun'  the  vernal  primroses,  and  yet 
no  able  to  play  on  ony  instrument — on  even  the  flute — let  abee  the  poker 
and  tangs.  Nodes  Ambrosict. 


I  AM  not  known  as  a  lover  of  music.  I  seldom  praise 
the  player  upon  an  instrument  or  the  singer  of  a  song. 
I  stand  aside  if  I  listen,  and  keep  the  measure  in 
my  heart,  without  beating  it  audibly  with  my  foot,  or 
moving  my  head  visibly  in  a  practised  abstraction. 
There  are  times  when  I  do  not  listen  at  all ;  and  it 
may  be  that  the  mood  is  not  on  me,  or  that  the  spell 
of  it  is  mastered  by  beauty,  or  that  I  hear  a  human 
voice  whose  very  whisper  is  sweeter  than  it  all. 
There  are  some  who  are  said  to  have  a  passion  for 
musiC;  and  they  will  turn  away  at  the  beginning  of  a 
song,  though  it  be  only  a  child's  lesson,  and  leave 
gazing  on  an  eye  that  was,  perhaps,  like  shaded 
water,  or  the  forehead  of  a  beautiful  woman,  or  the 
lip  of  a  young  girl,  to  listen.     I  cannot  boast  that  my 


UNWRITTEiN  MUSIC.  143 

love  of  music  is  so  strong.  I  confess  there  are  things 
I  know  that  are  often  an  overcharm,  though  not 
always,  and  I  would  not  give  up  iny  slavery  to  their 
power,  if  I  might  be  believed  to  have  gone  mad  at 
an  opera,  or  have  my  "Bravo"  the  signal  for  the 
the  applause  of  a  city. 

There  is  unwritten  music.  The  world  is  full  of  it. 
I  hear  it  every  hour  that  1  wake,  and  my  waking 
sense  is  surpassed  sometimes  by  my  sleeping — though 
that  is  a  mystery.  There  is  no  sound  of  simple  na- 
ture that  is  not  music.  It  is  all  God's  work,  and  so 
harmony.  You  may  mingle  and  divide  and  strengthen 
the  passages  of  its  great  anthem,  and  it  is  still  melody — 
melody.  The  low  winds  of  summer  blow  over  the 
waterfalls  and  the  brooks,  and  bring  their  voices  to 
your  ear,  as  if  their  sweetness  was  linked  by  an  accu- 
rate finger  ;  yet  the  wind  is  but  a  fitful  player  ;  and 
you  may  go  out  when  the  tempest  is  up,  and  hear 
the  strong  trees  moaning  as  they  lean  before  it,  and 
the  long  grass  hissing  as  it  sweeps  through,  and  its 
own  solemn  monotony  over  all — and  the  dimple  of 
that  same  brook,  and  the  waterfall's  unaltered  bass 
shall  still  reach  you  in  the  intervals  of  its  power,  as 
much  in  harmony  as  before,  and  as  much  a  part  of  its 
perfect  and  perpetual  hymn.  There  is  no  accident  of 
nature's  causing  which  can  bring  in  discord.  The 
loosened  rock  may  fall  into  the  abyss,  and  the  over- 
blown tree  rush  down  through  the  branches  of  the 
wood,  and  the  thunder  peal  awfully  in  the  sky  ; — and 
sudden   and    violent   as   these   changes   seem,   their 


^44  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

tumult  goes  up  with  the  sound  of  winds  and  waters, 
and  the  exquisite  ear  of  the  musician  can  delect  no  jar. 
I  have  read  somewhere  of  a  custom  in  the  High- 
lands, which,  in  connection  with  the  principle  it  in- 
volves, is  exceedingly  beautiful.  It  is  believed  that, 
to  the  ear  of  the  dying,  (which,  just  before  death,  be- 
comes always  exquisitely  acute,)  the  perfect  harmony 
of  the  voices  of  nature  is  so  ravishing,  as  to  make  him 
forget  his  suffering,  and  die  gently,  like  one  in  a  plea- 
sant trance.  And  so,  when  the  last  moment  ap- 
proaches, they  take  him  from  close  the  shieling,  and 
bear  him  out  into  the  open  sky,  that  he  may  hear 
the  familiar  rushing  of  the  streams.  I  can  believe  that 
it  is  not  superstition.  I  do  not  think  we  know  how 
exquisitely  nature's  many  voices  are  attuned  to  har- 
mony, and  to  each  other.  The  old  philosopher  we 
read  of  might  not  have  been  dreaming  when  he  dis- 
covered that  the  order  of  the  sky  was  like  a  scroll  of 
written  music,  and  that  two  stars,  (which  are  said  to 
have  appeared  centuries  after  his  death  in  the  very 
places  he  mentioned,)  were  wanting  to  complete  the 
harmony.  We  know  how  wonderful  are  the  phe- 
nomena of  color  ;  how  strangely  like  consummate  art 
the  strongest  dyes  are  blended  in  the  plumage  of 
birds,  and  in  the  cups  of  flowers  ;  so  that,  to  the 
practised  eye  of  the  painter,  the  harmony  is  inimitably 
perfect.  It  is  natural  to  suppose  every  part  of  the 
universe  equally  perfect ;  and  it  is  a  glorious  and  ele- 
vating thought,  that  the  stars  of  heaven  are  moving 
on  continually  to  music,  and  that  the  sounds  we  daily 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC. 


145 


listen  to  are  but  a  part  of  a  melody  that  reaches  to 
the  very  centre  of  God's  illimitable  spheres. 

It  is  not  mere  poetry  to  talk  of  the  "  voices  of 
summer."  It  is  the  day  time  of  the  year,  and  its  my- 
riad influences  are  audibly  at  work.  Even  by  ngh  t 
you  may  lay  your  ear  to  the  ground,  and  hear  that 
faintest  of  murmurs,  the  sound  of  growing:  things.  I 
used  to  think,  when  I  was  a  child,  that  it  was  fairy 
music.  If  you  have  been  used  to  rising  early,  you 
have  not   forwtten    how  the  stillness  of  the   nidit 

o  o 

seems  increased  by  the  timid  note  of  the  first  bird.  It 
is  the  only  time  when  I  would  lay  a  finger  on  the  lip 
of  nature — the  deep  hush  is  so  very  solemn.  By  and 
by,  however,  the  birds  are  all  up,  and  the  peculiar 
hohness  of  the  hour  declines — but  what  a  w^orld  of 
music  does  the  sun  shine  on  ! — the  deep  lowing  of 
the  cattle  blending  in  with  the  capricious  warble  of  a 
thousand  of  God's  happy  creatures,  and  the  stir  of 
industry  coming  on  the  air  like  the  undertones  of  a 
choir,  and  the  voice  of  man,  heard  in  the  distance 
over  all,  like  a  singer  among  instruments,  giving  them 
meaning  and  language  !  And  then,  if  your  ear  is  deli- 
cate, you  have  minded  how  all  these  sounds  grew 
softer  and  sweeter,  as  the  exhalations  of  dew  floated 
up,  and  the  vibrations  loosened  in  the  thin  air. 

You  should  go  out  some  morning  in  June,  and 
listen  to  the  notes  of  the  birds.  They  express,  far 
more  than  our  own,  the  characters  of  their  owners. 
From  the  scream  of  the  vulture  and  the  eagle,  to  the 
low  brooding  of  the  dove,  they  are  all  modified  by 
their  habits  of  support,  and  their  consequent  disposi- 
13 


J 46  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

tions.  With  the  small  birds,  the  voice  seems  to  be 
but  an  outpouring  of  gladness ;  and  it  is  pleasant  to 
see  that  without  one  articulate  word  it  is  so  sweet  a 
gift  to  them.  It  seems  a  necessary  vent  to  their  joy 
of  existence,  and  I  believe  in  my  heart  that  a  dumb 
bird  would  die  of  its  imprisoned  fulness. 

Nature  seems  never  so  utterly  still  to  me  as  in  the 
depth  of  a  summer  afternoon.  The  heat  has  driven 
in  the  birds,  and  the  leaves  hang  motionless  in  the 
trees,  and  no  creature  has  the  heart,  in  that  faint  sul- 
triness, to  utter  a  sound.  The  snake  sleeps  on  the 
rock,  and  the  frog  lies  breathing  in  the  pool,  and  even 
the  murmur  that  is  heard  at  night  is  inaudible,  for  the 
herbage  droops  beneath  the  sun,  and  the  seed  has  no 
strength  to  burst  its  covering.  The  world  is  still,  and 
the  pulses  beat  languidly.     It  is  a  time  for  sleep. 

But  if  you  w^ould  hear  one  of  nature's  most  various 
and  delicate  harmonies,  lie  down  in  the  edge  of  the 
wood  when  the  evening  breeze  begins  to  stir,  and 
listen  to  its  coming.  It  touches  first  the  silver  foliage 
of  the  birch,  and  the  slightly  hung  leaves,  at  its  merest 
breath,  will  lift  and  rustle  like  a  thousand  tiny  wings ; 
and  then  it  creeps  up  to  the  tall  fir,  and  the  fine  tas- 
sels send  out  a  sound  like  a  low  whisper;  and  as  the 
oak  feels  its  influence,  the  thick  leaves  stir  heavily, 
and  a  deep  tone  comes  sullenly  out  like  the  echo  of  a 
far-off  bassoon.  They  are  all  wind-harps  of  different 
power;  and  as  the  breeze  strengthens  and  sweeps 
equally  over  them  all,  their  united  harmony  has  a 
wonderful  grandeur  and  beauty. 

Then  what  is  more  soothing  than  the  dropping  of 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC.  I47 

the  rain  ?  You  should  have  slept  in  a  garret  to  know 
how  it  can  lull  and  bring  dreams.  How  I  have  lain, 
when  a  boy,  and  listened  to  the  fitful  patter  of  the 
large  drops  upon  the  roof,  and  held  my  breath  as  it 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  till  it  ceased  utterly,  and  I 
heard  nothing  but  the  rushing  of  the  strong  gust  and 
the  rattling  of  the  panes.  I  used  to  say  over  my 
prayers,  and  think  of  the  apples  I  had  stolen,  then  ! 
But  were  you  ever  out  fishing  upon  a  lake  in  a  smart 
shower  ?  It  is  like  the  playing  of  musical  glasses. 
The  drops  ring  out  with  a  clear  bell-like  tinkle,  fol- 
lowing each  other  sometimes  so  closely  that  it  resem- 
bles the  winding  of  a  distant  horn  ;  and  then,  in  the 
momentary  intervals,  the  bursting  of  the  thousand  tiny 
bubbles  comes  stealthily  on  your  ear,  more  like  the 
recollection  of  a  sound  than  a  distinct  murmur.  Not 
that  I  fish.  I  was  ever  a  milky-hearted  boy,  and  had 
a  foolish  notion  that  there  was  pain  in  the  restless 
death  of  those  panting  and  beautiful  creatures  ;  but 
I  loved  to  go  out  with  the  old  men  when  the  day  set 
in  with  rain,  and  lie  dreamily  over  the  gunwale  listen- 
ing to  the  changes  of  which  I  have  spoken.  It  had 
a  quieting  effect  on  my  temper,  and  stilled  for  a 
while  the  uneasiness  of  that  vague  longing  that  is  like 
a  fever  at  a  boy's  heart. 

There  is  a  melancholy  music  in  autumn.  The 
leaves  float  sadly  about  with  a  look  of  peculiar  deso- 
lateness,  wavering  capriciously  in  the  wind,  and  falling 
with  a  just  audible  sound  that  is  a  very  sigh  for  its 
sadness.  And  then,  when  the  breeze  is  fresher — 
though  the  early  autumn  months  are  mostly  still — they 


148  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

are  swept  on  with  a  cheerless  rustle  over  the  naked 
harvest  fields,  and  about  in  the  eddies  of  the  blast ; 
and  though  I  have  sometimes,  in  the  glow  of  exercise, 
felt  my  life  securer  in  the  triumph  of  the  brave  con- 
trast, yet  in  the  chill  of  evening,  or  when  any  sickness 
of  mind  or  body  was  on  me,  the  moaning  of  those 
withered  leaves  has  pressed  down  my  heart  like  a  sor- 
row, and  the  cheerful  fire  and  the  voices  of  my  many 
sisters  might  scarce  remove  it. 

Then,  for  the  music  of  winter,  I  love  to  listen  to 
the  falling  of  the  snow.  It  is  an  unobtrusive  and 
sweet  music.  You  may  temper  your  heart  to  the 
serenest  mood  by  its  low  murmur.  It  is  that  kind  of 
music  that  only  intrudes  upon  your  ear  when  your 
thoughts  come  languidly.  You  need  not  hear  it  if 
your  mind  is  not  idle.  It  realizes  my  dream  of  an- 
other world,  where  music  is  intuitive  like  a  thought, 
and  comes  only  when  it  is  remembered. 

And  the  frost,  too,  has  a  melodious  '^  ministry." 
You  will  hear  its  crystals  shoot  in  the  dead  of  a  clear 
night,  as  if  the  moonbeams  were  splintering  like  arrows 
on  the  ground  ;  and  you  listen  to  it  the  more  earnesdy 
that  it  is  the  going  on  of  one  of  the  most  cunning  and 
beautiful  of  nature's  deep  mysteries.  I  know  nothing 
so  wonderful  as  the  shooting  of  a  crystal.  God  has 
hidden  its  principle  as  yet  from  the  inquisitive  eye  of 
the  philosopher,  and  we  must  be  content  to  gaze  on 
its  exquisite  beauty,  and  listen  in  mute  wonder  to  the 
noise  of  its  invisible  workmanship.  It  is  too  fine  a 
knowledge  for  us.  We  shall  comprehend  it  when  we 
know  how  the  ^'  morning  stars  sang  together." 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC.  149 

You  would  hardly  look  for  music  in  the  dreariness 
of  the  early  winter.  But  before  the  keener  frosts  set 
in,  and  while  the  warm  winds  are  yet  stealing  back 
occasionally  like  regrets  of  the  departed  summer,  there 
will  come  a  soft  rain  or  a  heavy  mist,  and,  when  the 
north  wind  returns,  there  will  be  drops  suspended  like 
ear-ring  jewels  between  the  filaments  of  the  cedar  tas- 
sels and  in  the  feathery  edges  of  the  dark  green  hem- 
locks, and  if  the  clearing  up  is  not  followed  by  a  heavy 
wind,  they  will  all  be  frozen  in  their  places  like  well 
set  gems.  The  next  morning  the  warm  sun  comes 
out,  and  by  the  middle  of  the  calm,  dazzling  forenoon, 
they  are  all  loosened  from  the  close  touch  which  sus- 
tained them,  and  will  drop  at  the  lightest  motion.  If 
you  go  along  upon  the  south  side  of  the  wood  at  that 
hour,  you  will  hear  music.  The  dry  foliage  of  the 
summer's  shedding  is  scattered  over  the  ground,  and 
the  round,  hard  drops  ring  out  clearly  and  distinctly, 
as  they  are  shaken  down  with  the  stirring  of  the 
breeze.  It  is  something  like  the  running  of  deep  and 
rapid  water,  only  more  fitful  and  merrier  ;  but  to  one 
who  goes  out  in  nature  with  his  heart  open,  it  is  a 
pleasant  music,  and,  in  contrast  with  the  stern  charac- 
ter of  the  season,  delightful. 

Winter  has  many  other  sounds  that  give  pleasure 
to  the  seeker  for  hidden  sweetness  ;  but  they  are  too 
rare  and  accidental  to  be  described  distinctly.  The 
brooks  have  a  sullen  and  muffled  murmur  under  their 
frozen  surface  ;  the  ice  in  the  distant  river  heaves  up 
with  the  swell  of  the  current,  and  falls  again  to  the 
bank  with  a  prolonged  echo,  and  the  woodman's  axe 
13* 


150  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

rings  cheerfully  out  from  the  bosom  of  the  unrobed 
forest.  These  are,  at  best,  however,  but  melancholy 
sounds,  and,  like  all  that  meets  the  eye  in  that  cheer- 
less season,  they  but  drive  in  the  heart  upon  itself.  I 
believe  it  is  so  ordered  in  God's  wisdom.  We  forget 
ourselves  in  the  enticement  of  the  sweet  summer.  Its 
music  and  its  loveliness  win  away  the  senses  that  link 
up  the  affections,  and  we  need  a  hand  to  turn  us 
back  tenderly,  and  hide  from  us  the  outward  idols  in 
whose  worship  we  are  forgetting  the  higher  and  more 
spiritual  altars. 

Hitherto  I  have  spoken  only  of  the  sounds  of  irra- 
tional and  inanimate  nature.  A  better  than  these,  and 
the  best  music  under  heaven,  is  the  music  of  the 
human  voice.  I  doubt  whether  all  voices  are  not  ca- 
pable of  it,  though  there  must  be  degrees  in  it  as  in 
beauty.  The  tones  of  affection  in  all  children  are 
sweet,  and  we  know  not  how  much  their  unpleasant- 
ness in  after  life  may  be  the  effect  of  sin  and  coarse- 
ness, and  the  consequent  habitual  expression  of  dis- 
cordant passions.  But  we  do  know  that  the  voice  of 
any  human  being  becomes  touching  by  distress,  and 
that  even  on  the  coarse  minded  and  the  low,  relimon 
and  the  higher  passions  of  the  world  have  sometimes 
so  wrought,  that  their  eloquence  was  like  the  strong 
passages  of  an  organ.  I  have  been  much  about  in 
the  world,  and  with  a  boy's  unrest  and  a  peculiar  thirst 
for  novel  sensations,  have  mingled  for  a  time  in  every 
walk  of  life  ;  yet  never  have  I  known  man  or  woman 
under  the  influence  of  any  strong  feeling  that  was  not 
utterly  degraded,  whose  voice  did  not  deepen  to  a 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC.  X51 

chord  of  grandeur,  or  soften  to  cadences  to  which  a 
harp  might  have  been  swept  pleasantly.  It  is  a  per- 
fect instrument  as  it  comes  from  the  hand  of  its  Maker, 
and  though  its  strings  may  relax  with  the  atmosphere, 
or  be  injured  by  misuse  and  neglect,  it  is  always  capa- 
ble of  being  re-strung  to  its  compass  till  its  frame  is 
shattered. 

Men  have  seldom  musical  voices.  Whether  it  is 
that  their  passions  are  coarser,  or  that  their  life  of  cau- 
tion and  reserve  shuts  up  the  kindliness  from  w^hich  it 
would  spring,  a  pleasant  masculine  voice  is  one  of  the 
rarest  gifts  of  our  sex.  Whenever  you  do  meet  it, 
however,  it  is  always  accompanied  either  by  noble 
qualities,  or  by  that  peculiar  capacity  for  understand- 
ing all  character,  which  Goethe  calls  a  '*'  presentiment 
of  the  universe,"  and  which  enables  its  possessor, 
without  a  spark  of  a  generous  nature  himself,  to  know 
perfectly  what  it  is  in  others,  and  to  deceive  the  world 
by  assuming  all  its  accompaniments  and  all  its  out- 
ward evidence.  I  speak  now,  and  throughout  these 
remarks,  only  of  the  conversational  tone.  A  man 
may  sing  never  so  well,  and  still  speak  execrably  ;  and 
I  rarely  have  known  a  person  who  conversed  musi- 
cally to  sing  even  a  tolerable  song. 

A  good  tone  is  generally  the  gift  of  a  gentleman  ; 
for  it  is  always  low  and  deep,  and  the  vulgar  never 
possess  the  serenity  and  composure  from  which  it 
alone  can  spring.  They  are  always  busy  and  hurried, 
and  a  high  sharp  tone  becomes  habitual. 

There  is  nothing  like  a  sweet  voice  to  win  upon  the 
confidence.     It  is  the  secret  of  the  otherwise  unac- 


J52  TIfE   BOSTON   BOOK. 

countable  success  of  some  men  in  society.  They 
never  talk  for  more  than  one  to  hear,  and  to  that  one, 
if  a  woman  and  attractive,  it  is  a  most  dangerous  be- 
cause unsuspected  spell  ;  and  every  one  knows  how 
the  voice  softens  instinctively  with  the  knowledge 
that  but  one  ear  listens,  and  that  it  is  addressed  with- 
out witnesses  to  one  who  cannot  stand  aside  from  her- 
self and  separate  the  enchanter  from  his  music.  It  is 
an  insidious  and  beguiling  power,  and  I  have  seen 
men,  who,  without  any  pretensions  to  dignity  or  im- 
posing address,  would  arrest  attention  the  moment 
their  voices  were  heard,  and  who,  if  they  leaned  over 
to  murmur  in  a  woman's  car,  w  ere  certain  of  pleasing, 
though  the  remark  were  the  very  idlest  common-place 
of  conversation. 

A  sweet  voice  is  indispensable  to  a  woman.  I  do 
not  think  I  can  describe  it.  It  can  be,  and  sometimes 
is,  cukivaled.  It  is  not  inconsistent  with  great  viva- 
cit\',  hut  it  is  oftener  the  gift  of  the  quiet  and  unobtru- 
sive, i.oudness  or  ra[)idity  of  utterance  is  incompati- 
ble with  it.  It  is  low,  but  not  guttural,  deliberate,  but 
not  slow.  Every  syllable  is  distinctly  heard,  but  they 
follow  each  other  like  drops  of  water  from  a  fountain. 
It  is  like  the  brooding  of  a  dove — not  shrill,  nor  even 
clear,  but  uttered  with  the  subdued  and  touching  reedi- 
7iess  which  every  voice  assumes  in  moments  of  deep 
feeling  or  tenderness.  It  is  a  glorious  gift  in  woman. 
I  should  be  won  by  it  more  than  by  beauty — more, 
even,  than  by  talent,  were  it  possible  to  separate 
them.  I  Jut  1  never  heard  a  deep,  sweet  voice  from  a 
weak  woman.     It  is  the  organ  of  strong  feeling,  and 


i'>\\T.nTEN  >n:"sic.  153 

of  thought?  which  have  lain  in  the  bosom  tiii  tneir  >a- 
credne55  ahiiost  hushe?  utterance.  I  remember  lis- 
tening  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd,  many  years  ago.  to 
the  voice  of  a  girl — a  mere  child  of  sixteen  summers, 
till  I  was  bewildered.  She  was  a  pure,  high-hearted, 
impassioned  creature,  without  the  least  knowledge  of 
the  world  or  her  peculiar  giftj  but  her  own  thoughts 
had  wrought  upon  her  like  the  hush  of  a  sanctuary, 
and  she  spoke  low,  as  if  with  an  unconscious  awe.  I 
could  never  trifle  in  her  presence.  My  nonsense 
seemed  out  of  place,  and  my  practised  assurance  for- 
sook me  utterly.  She  is  changed  now.  She  has 
been  admired  and  found  out  her  beauty,  and  the  mu- 
sic of  her  tone  is  eone  !  She  will  recover  it  by  and 
by.  when  the  delirium  of  the  world  is  over,  and  she 
begins  to  rely  once  more  upon  her  own  thoughts  for 
company ;  but  her  extravagant  spirits  have  broken 
over  the  thrilling  timidity  of  childhood,  and  tbe  charm 
is  unwound. 

The  music  of  church  bells  has  become  a  matter  of 
jX)etry.  Thomas  Moore,  (whose  mere  sense  of  beauty 
is  making  him  religious,  and  who  knows  better  than 
any  other  man  what  is  beautiful,)  has  sung  **  those 
evening  bells,*'  in  some  of  the  most  melodious  of  his 
elaborate  stanzas.  I  remember,  though  somewhat 
imperfectly,  a  touching  story  connected  with  the 
church  bells  of  a  town  in  Italy,  \shich  had  become 
famous  all  over  Europe  for  their  peculiar  solemnity 
and  sweetness.  They  were  made  by  a  young  Italian 
artizan,  and  were  his  heart's  pride.  During  the  war 
the  place  was  sacked,  and  the  bells  carried  off,  no 


154 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


one  knew  whither.  After  the  tiimuU  was  over,  the 
poor  fellow  returned  to  his  work,  but  it  had  been  the 
solace  of  his  life  to  wander  about  at  evening,  and 
listen  to  the  chime  of  his  bells,  and  he  grew  dispirited 
and  sick,  and  pined  for  them  till  he  could  no  longer 
bear  it,  and  left  his  home,  determined  to  wander  over 
the  world,  and  hear  them  once  again  before  he  died. 
He  went  from  land  to  land,  stopping  in  every  village, 
till  the  hope  that  alone  sustained  him  began  to  falter, 
and  he  knew  at  last  that  he  was  dying.  He  lay  one 
evening  in  a  boat  that  was  slowly  floating  down  the 
Rhine,  almost  insensible,  and  scarce  expecting  to  see 
the  sun  rise  again,  that  was  now  setting  gloriously 
over  the  vine-covered  hills  of  Germany.  Presently, 
the  vesper  bells  of  a  distant  village  began  to  ring,  and, 
as  the  chimes  stole  faintly  over  the  river  with  the  eve- 
ning breeze,  he  started  from  his  lethargy.  He  was 
not  mistaken.  It  was  the  deep,  solemn,  heavenly 
music  of  his  own  bells,  and  the  sounds  that  he  had 
thirsted  for  years  to  hear,  were  melting  over  the  water. 
He  leaned  from  the  boat,  with  his  ear  close  to  the 
calm  surface  of  the  river,  and  listened.  They  rung 
out  their  hymn  and  ceased — and  he  still  lay  motion- 
less in  his  painful  posture.  His  companions  spoke  to 
him,  but  he  gave  no  answer — his  spirit  had  followed 
the  last  sound  of  the  vesper  chime. 

There  is  something  exceedingly  impressive  in  the 
breaking  in  of  church  bells  on  the  stillness  of  the 
Sabbath.  I  doubt  whether  it  is  not  more  so  in  the 
heart  of  a  populous  city  than  any  where  else.  The 
presence  of  any  single,  strong  feehng,  in  the  midst  of 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC.  I55 

a  great  people,  has  something  ofawfuhiess  in  it  which 
exceeds  even  the  impressiveness  of  nature's  breathless 
Sabbath.  I  know  few  things  more  imposing  than  to 
walk  the  streets  of  a  city  when  the  peal  of  the  early 
bells  is  just  beginning.  The  deserted  pavementSj  the 
closed  windows  of  the  places  of  business,  the  decent 
gravity  of  the  solitary  passenger,  and,  over  all,  the 
feeling  in  your  own  bosom  that  the  fear  of  God  is 
brooding  like  a  great  shadow  over  the  thousand  hu- 
man beings  who  are  sitting  still  in  their  dwellings 
around  you,  were  enough,  if  there  were  no  other  cir- 
cumstance, to  hush  the  heart  into  a  religious  fear. 
But  when  the  bells  peal  out  suddenly  with  a  sum- 
mons to  the  temple  of  God,  and  their  echoes  roll  on 
through  the  desolate  streets,  and  are  unanswered  by 
the  sound  of  any  human  voice,  or  the  din  of  any 
human  occupation,  the  effect  has  sometimes  seemed 
to  me  more  solemn  than  the  near  thunder. 

Far  more  beautiful,  and  perhaps  quite  as  salutary 
as  a  religious  influence,  is  the  sound  of  a  distant  Sab- 
bath bell  in  the  country.  It  comes  floating  over  the 
hills  like  the  going  abroad  of  a  spirit;  and  as  the 
leaves  stir  with  its  vibrations,  and  the  drops  of  dew 
tremble  in  the  cups  of  the  flowers,  you  could  almost 
believe  that  there  was  a  Sabbath  in  nature,  and  that 
the  dumb  works  of  God  rendered  visible  worship  for 
his  goodness.  The  effect  of  nature  alone  is  purifying, 
and  its  thousand  evidences  of  wisdom  are  too  eloquent 
of  their  Maker  not  to  act  as  a  continual  lesson  ;  but 
combined  with  the  instilled  piety  of  childhood,  and 
.the  knowledge  of  the  inviolable  holiness  of  the  time, 


156  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

the  mellow  cadences  of  a  church  bell  give  to  the  hush 
of  the  country  Sabbath,  a  holiness  to  which  only  a 
desperate  heart  could  be  insensible. 

Yet,  after  all,  whose  ear  was  ever  ''  filled  with 
hearing,"  or  whose  ^' eye  with  seeing?"  Full  as 
the  world  is  of  music — crowded  as  life  is  with  beauty 
which  surpasses,  in  its  mysterious  workmanship,  our 
wildest  dream  of  faculty  and  skill — gorgeous  as  is  the 
overhung  and  ample  sky,  and  deep  and  universal  as 
the  harmonies  are  which  are  wandering  perpetually  in 
the  atmosphere  of  this  spacious  and  beautiful  world — 
who  has  ever  heard  music  and  not  felt  a  capacity  for 
better,  or  seen  beauty,  or  grandeur,  or  delicate  cun- 
ning, without  a  feeling  in  his  inmost  soul  of  unreached 
and  unsatisfied  conceptions  ?  I  have  gazed  on  the 
dazzling  loveliness  of  woman,  till  the  value  of  my 
whole  existence  seemed  pressed  into  that  one  moment 
of  sight ;  and  I  have  listened  to  music  till  my  tears 
came,  and  my  brain  swam  dizzily — yet  when  I  turned 
away  I  wished  that  the  beauty  of  the  woman  had 
been  perfecter,  and  my  lips  parted  at  the  intensest 
ravishment  of  that  dying  music,  with  an  impatient 
feeling  that  its  spell  was  unfinished.  I  used  to  won- 
der when  I  was  a  boy  how  Socrates  knew  that  this 
world  was  not  enough  for  his  capacities,  and  that  his 
soul  therefore  was  immortal.  It  is  no  marvel  to  me 
now. 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  PAST. 


Bv  Epes  Sarge-vt. 

We  will  not  deplore  them,  the  days  that  are  past ; 
The  gloom  of  misfortune  is  over  them  cast ; 
They  are  lengthened  by  sorrow  and  sullied  by  care ; 
Their  griefs  were  too  many,  their  joys  were  too  rare ; 
Yet  now  that  their  shadows  are  on  us  no  more, 
Let  us  welcome  the  prospect  that  brightens  before  ! 

We  have  cherished  fair  hopes,  we  have  plotted  brave 

schemes. 
We  have  lived  till  we  find  them  illusive  as  dreams  ; 
Wealth  has  melted  like  snow  that  is  grasped  in  the  hand, 
And  the  steps  we  have  climbed  have  departed  like  sand ; 
Yet  shall  we  despond  while  of  health  unbereft, 
And  honor,  bright  honor,  and  freedom  are  left  ? 

Oh  !  shall  we  despond,  while  the  pages  of  time 
Yet  open  before  us  their  records  sublime  ! 
While  ennobled  by  treasures  more  precious  than  gold, 
We  can  walk  with  the  martyrs  and  heroes  of  old ; 
While  humanity  whispers  such  truths  in  the  ear. 
As  it  softens  the  heart  like  sweet  music  to  hear  ? 

14 


J  58  THE  BOSTON   BOOK.  | 

Oh  !  shall  we  despond,  while  with  vision  still  free,  | 

We  can  gaze  on  the  sky  and  the  earth  and  the  sea ;  I 

While  the  sunshine  can  waken  a  burst  of  delight,  I 

And  the  stars  are  a  joy  and  a  glory  by  night :  j 

While  each  harmony  running  through  nature  can  raise  | 

In  our  spirits  the  impulse  of  gladness  and  praise  ?  I 

I 

Oh  !  let  us  no  longer  then  vainly  lament 
Over  scenes  that  are  faded,  and  days  that  are  spent ;         ! 
But  by  fciith  unforsaken,  unawed  by  mischance,  | 

On  hope's  waving  banner  still  fixed  be  our  glance  ;  | 

And  should  fortune  prove  cruel  and  false  to  the  last, 
Let  us  look  to  the  future,  and  not  to  the  past ! 


THE   SEA. 


By  F.  W.  p.  Greenwood. 


^'  The  sea  is  bis,  and  he  made  it."  Its  beauty  is  of 
God.  It  possesses  it,  in  ricbness,  of  its  own  ;  it  bor- 
rows it  from  earth,  and  air,  and  heaven.  The  clouds 
lend  it  the  various  dyes  of  their  wardrobe,  and  throw 
down  upon  it  the  broad  masses  of  their  shadows,  as  they 
go  sailing  and  sweeping  by.  The  rainbow  laves  in 
it  its  many  colored  feet.  The  sun  loves  to  visit  it, 
and  the  moon,  and  the  glittering  brotherhood  of  planets 
and  stars ;  for  they  delight  themselves  in  its  beauty. 
The  sunbeams  return  from  it  in  showers  of  diamonds 
and  glances  of  fire  ;  the  moonbeams  find  in  it  a  path- 
way of  silver,  wdiere  they  dance  to  and  fro,  with  the 
breeze  and  the  weaves,  through  the  livelong  night.  It 
has  a  light,  too,  of  its  own,  a  soft  and  sparkhng  light, 
rivalling  the  stars  ;  and  often  does  the  ship  which  cuts 
its  surface,  leave  streaming  behind  a  milky  way  of 
dim  and  uncertain  lustre,  like  that  which  is  shining 
dimly  above.  It  harmonizes  in  its  forms  and  sounds 
both  with  the  night  and  the  day.  It  cheerfully  reflects 
the  light,  and  it  unites  solemnly  with  the  darkness. 
It  imparts  sweetness  to  the  music  of  men,  and  gran- 


IQQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

deur  to  the  thunder  of  heaven.  What  landscape  is 
so  beautiful  as  one  upon  the  borders  of  the  sea  ?  The 
spirit  of  its  loveliness  is  from  the  waters,  where  it 
dwells  and  rests,  singing  its  spells,  and  scattering  its 
charms  on  all  the  coast.  What  rocks  and  cliffs  are 
so  glorious  as  those  which  are  washed  by  the  chafing 
sea  ?  What  groves,  and  fields,  and  dwellings  are  so 
enchanting  as  those  which  stand  by  the  reflecting  sea. 
If  we  could  see  the  great  ocean  as  it  can  be  seen 
by  no  mortal  eye,  beholding  at  one  view  what  we  are 
now  obliged  to  visit  in  detail  and  spot  by  spot  ;  if  we 
could,  from  a  flight  far  higher  than  the  sea  eagle's, 
and  with  a  sight  more  keen  and  comprehensive  than 
his,  view  the  immense  surface  of  the  deep  all  spread 
out  beneath  us  like  a  universal  chart,  what  an  infinite 
variety  such  a  scene  would  display  !  Here  a  storm 
would  be  raging,  the  thunder  bursting,  the  waters 
boihng,  and  rain  and  foam  and  fire  all  mingling  to- 
gether ;  and  here  next  to  this  scene  of  magnificent 
confusion,  we  should  see  the  bright  blue  waves  glit- 
tering in  the  sun,  and  while  the  brisk  breezes  flew 
over  them,  clapping  their  hands  for  very  gladness — 
for  they  do  clap  their  hands,  and  justify  by  the  life, 
and  almost  individual  animation  which  they  exhibit, 
that  remarkable  figure  of  the  Psalmist.  Here,  again, 
on  this  selfsame  ocean,  we  should  behold  large  tracts 
where  there  was  neither  tempest  nor  breeze,  but  a 
dead  calm,  breathless,  noiseless,  and,  were  it  not  for 
that  swell  of  the  sea  which  never  rests,  motionless. 
Here  we  should  see  a  cluster  of  green  islands,  set  like 


THE  SEA.  161 

jewels,  in  the  midst  of  its  bosom  ;  and  there  we 
should  see  broad  shoals  and  gray  rocks,  fretting  the 
billows,  and  threatening  the  mariner.  "  There  go  the 
ships,"  the  white  robed  sliips,  some  on  this  course, 
and  others  on  the  opposite  one,  some  just  approaching 
the  shore,  and  some  just  leaving  it ;  some  in  fleets, 
and  others  in  solitude  ;  some  swinging  lazily  in  a 
calm,  and  some  driven  and  tossed,  and  perhaps  over- 
whelmed by  the  storm  ;  some  for  traffic,  and  some  for 
state,  and  some  in  peace,  and  others,  alas  !  in  war. 
Let  us  follow  one,  and  we  should  see  it  propelled  by 
the  steady  wind  of  the  tropics,  and  inhalingthe  almost 
visible  odors  which  diffuse  themselves  around  the 
spice  islands  of  the  East ;  let  us  observe  the  track  of 
another,  and  we  should  behold  it  piercing  the  cold 
barriers  of  the  North,  struo-o-linor  amonoj  hills  and 
fields  of  ice,  contending  with  Winter  in  his  own  ever- 
lasting dominion,  striving  to  touch  that  unattained, 
solemn,  hermit  point  of  the  globe,  where  ships  may 
perhaps  never  visit,  and  where  the  foot  of  man,  all 
daring  and  indefatigable  as  it  is,  may  never  tread. 
Nor  are  the  ships  of  man  the  only  travellers  whom 
we  shall  perceive  on  this  mighty  map  of  the  ocean. 
Flocks  of  sea  birds  are  passing  and  repassing,  diving 
for  their  food,  or  for  pastime,  migrating  from  shore  to 
shore  with  unwearied  wings  and  undeviating  instinct, 
or  wheeling  and  swarming  round  the  rocks  which 
they  make  alive  and  vocal  by  their  numbers  and  their 
clanoing  cries. 

How  various,  how  animated,  how  full  of  interest  is 
14* 


IQO  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

the  survey !  We  might  behold  such  a  scene,  were 
we  enabled  to  behold  it,  at  almost  any  moment  of 
lime  on  the  vast  and  varied  ocean  ;  and  it  would  be 
a  much  more  diversified  and  beautiful  one  ;  for  I  have 
spoken  but  of  a  few  particulars,  and  of  those  but 
slightlv.  I  have  not  spoken  of  the  thousand  forms 
in  which  the  sea  meets  the  shore,  of  the  sands  and 
the  clifis,  of  the  arches  and  grottos,  of  the  cities  and 
the  solitudes,  which  occur  in  the  beautiful  irregularity 
of  its  outline  ;  nor  of  the  constant  tides,  nor  the  boil- 
ing whirlpools  and  eddies,  nor  the  currents  and 
streams,  which  are  dispersed  throughout  its  surface. 
The  variety  of  the  sea,  notwithstanding  the  uniformity 
of  its  substance,  is  ever  changing  and  endless. 

"  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it.*'  And  when  he 
made  it,  he  ordained  that  it  should  be  the  element 
and  dwelling  place  of  multitudes  of  living  beings,  and 
the  treasury  of  many  riches.  How  populous  and 
wealthy  and  bounteous  are  the  depths  of  the  sea  1 
How  many  are  the  tribes  which  find  in  them  abundant 
sustenance,  and  furnish  abundant  sustenance  to  man. 
The  whale  roams  through  the  deep  like  its  lord  ;  but 
he  is  forced  to  surrender  his  vast  bulk  to  the  use  of 
man.  The  lesser  tribes  of  the  finny  race  have  each 
their  peculiar  habits  and  haunts,  but  they  are  found 
out  by  the  ingenuity  of  man.  and  turned  to  his  own 
purposes.  The  line  and  the  hook  and  the  net  are 
dropped  and  spread  to  delude  them,  and  bring  them 
up  from  the  watery  chambers  where  they  were  roving 
in  conscious  securiiv.     How   siran^e  it  is  that   the 


THE  SEA.  1(33 

warm  food  which  comes  upon  our  tables,  and  the  sub- 
stances which  furnish  our  streets  and  dwellings  with 
cheerful  hght,  should  be  drawn  up  from  the  cold  and 
dark  recesses  of  the  sea. 

We  shall  behold  new  wonders  and  riches  when  we 
investigate  the  sea-shore.  We  shall  find  both  beauty 
for  the  eye  and  food  for  the  body,  in  the  varieties  of 
shell  fish,  which  adhere  in  myriads  to  the  rocks,  or 
form  their  close  dark  burrows  in  the  sands.  In  some 
parts  of  the  world  we  shall  see  those  houses  of  stone, 
which  the  little  coral  insect  rears  up  with  patient 
industry  from  the  bottom  of  the  waters,  till  they 
grow  into  formidable  rocks,  and  broad  forests,  whose 
branches  never  wave,  and  whose  leaves  never  fall. 
In  other  parts  we  shall  see  those  '•'  pale  glistening 
pearls  "'  which  adorn  the  crowns  of  princes,  and  are 
woven  in  the  hair  of  beauty,  extorted  by  the  restless 
grasp  of  man  from  the  hidden  stores  of  ocean.  And, 
spread  round  every  coast,  there  are  beds  of  flowers 
and  thickets  of  plants,  w  hich  the  dew  does  not  nourish, 
and  which  man  has  not  sown,  nor  cultivated,  nor 
reaped  :  but  w  hich  seem  to  belong  to  the  floods 
alone,  and  the  denizens  of  the  floods,  until  they  are 
thrown  up  by  the  surges,  and  we  discover  that  even 
the  dead  spoils  of  the  fields  of  ocean  may  fertilize  and 
enrich  the  fields  of  earth.  They  have  a  life,  and  a 
nourishment,  and  an  economy  of  their  own,  and  we 
know  little  of  them,  except  that  they  are  there  in  their 
briny  nurseries,  reared  up  into  luxuriance  by  what 
would  kill,  like  a  mortal  poison,  the  plants  of  the  land. 


154  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 

There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion. 

The  fan  coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea } 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea," 

We  must  not  omit  to  consider  the  utility  of  the 
sea ;  its  utiHty,  I  mean,  not  only  as  it  furnishes  a 
dwelling  and  sustenance  to  an  infinite  variety  and 
number  of  inhabitants,  and  an  important  part  of  the 
support  of  man,  but  in  its  more  general  relations  to 
the  whole  globe  of  the  world.  It  cools  the  air  for  us 
in  summer,  and  warms  it  in  winter.  It  is  probable 
that  the  very  composition  of  the  atmosphere  is  benefi- 
cially affected  by  combining  w'ith  the  particles  which 
it  takes  up  from  the  ocean  ;  but,  however  this  may 
be,  there  is  little  or  no  doubt,  that  were  it  not  for  the 
immense  face  of  waters  with  which  the  atmosphere 
comes  in  contact,  it  would  be  hardly  respirable  for 
the  dwellers  on  the  earth.  Then,  again,  it  affords  an 
easier,  and,  on  the  whole,  perhaps  a  safer  medium  of 
communication  and  conveyance  between  nation  and 
nation,  than  can  be  found,  for  equal  distances,  on 
the  land.  It  is  also  an  effectual  barrier  between  na- 
tions, preserving  to  a  great  degree  the  weak  from 
invasion  and  the  virtuous  from  contamination.  In 
many  other  respects  it  is  no  doubt  useful  to  the  great 
whole,  though  in  how  many  we  are  not  qualified  to 
judge.     What  we  do  see  is  abundant  testimony  of  the 


THE  SEA.  155 

wisdom  and  goodness  of  him   who  in  the  beginning 
"  gathered  the  waters  together  unto  one  place." 

There  is  mystery  in  the  sea.  There  is  mystery  in 
its  depths.  It  is  unfathomed,  and  perhaps  unfath- 
omable. Who  can  tell,  who  shall  know,  how  near  its 
pits  run  down  to  the  central  core  of  the  world  ? 
Who  can  tell  what  wells,  what  fountains  are  there,  to 
which  the  fountains  of  the  earth  are  in  comparison 
but  drops  ?  Who  shall  say  whence  the  ocean  derives 
those  inexhaustible  supplies  of  salt,  which  so  impreg- 
nates its  waters,  that  all  the  rivers  of  the  earth,  pouring 
into  it  from  the  time  of  the  creation,  have  not  been 
able  to  freshen  them  ?  What  undescribed  monsters, 
what  unimaginable  shapes,  may  be  roving  in  the  pro- 
foundest  places  of  the  sea,  never  seeking,  and  perhaps 
from  their  nature  unable  to  seek,  the  upper  waters, 
and  expose  themselves  to  the  gaze  of  man  !  What 
glittering  riches,  what  heaps  of  gold,  what  stores  of 
gems,  there  must  be  scattered  in  lavish  profusion  on 
the  ocean's  lowest  bed !  What  spoils  from  all  cli- 
mates, what  works  of  art  from  all  lands,  have  been 
ingulfed  by  the  insatiable  and  reckless  waves  !  Who 
shall  go  down  to  examine  and  reclaim  this  uncounted 
and  idle  w-ealth  ?     Who  bears  the  keys  of  the  deep  ? 

And  oh !  yet  more  afiectlng  to  the  heart  and  mys- 
terious to  the  mind,  what  companies  of  human  beings 
are  locked  up  in  that  wide,  weltering,  unsearchable 
grave  of  the  sea  !  Where  are  the  bodies  of  those 
lost  ones,  over  whom  the  melancholy  waves  alone 
have  been  chanting  requiem  ?     What  shrouds  were 


IQQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK.  | 

wrapped  round  the  limbs  of  beauty,  and  of  man-    i 
hood,  and  of  placid  infancy,  when  they  were  laid  on     ' 
the  dark  floor  of  that  secret  tomb  ?     Where  are  the     j 
bones,  the  rehcs  of  the  brave  and  the  fearful,  the  good     j 
and  the  bad,  the  parent,  the  child,  the  wife,  the  hus- 
band, the  brother,  and  sister,  and  lover,  which  have     | 
been  tossed  and  scattered  and  buried  by  the  washing,     j 
wasting,  wandering  sea  ?     The  journeying  winds  may     \ 
sigh,  as  year  after  year  they  pass  over  their  beds. 
The  solitary  rain  cloud  may  weep  in  darkness  over 
the  mingled  remains  which  lie  strewed  in  that  un- 
wonted cemetery.     But  who  shall  tell  the  bereaved     ! 
to  what  spot  their  affections  may  cling  ?     And  where 
shall  human  tears  be  shed   throughout  that  solemn 
sepulchre  ?     It   is    mystery  all.     When   shall    it    be 
resolved  ?     Who  shall  find  it  out  ?     Who,  but  he  to 
whom  the  wildest   waves   listen  reverently,  and   to 
whom  all  nature  bows  ;  he  who  shall  one  day  speak, 
and  be  heard  in  ocean's  profoundest  caves  ;  to  whom 
the  deep,  even  the  lowest  deep,  shall  give  up  all  its 
dead,  when  the  sun  shall  sicken,  and  the  earth  and 
the  isles  shall  languish,  and   the  heavens  be  rolled 
together  like  a  scroll,  and  there  shall  be  "  no  more 


THE    VILLAGER'S    WINTER    EVENING 
SONG. 

By  James  T.  Fields. 

Not  a  leaf  on  the  tree, — not  a  bud  in  the  hollow, 
Where  late  swung  the  blue-bell,  and  blossomed  the  rose; 
And  hushed  is  the  cry  of  the  swift-darting  swallow, 
That  circled  the  lake  in  the  twilight's  dim  close. 

Gone,  gone  are  the  woodbine  and  sweet-scented  brier, 
That  bloomed  o'er  the  hillock  and  gladdened  the  vale  ; 
And  the  vine  that  uplifted  its  green  pointed  spire, 
Hangs  drooping  and  sere  on  the  frost  covered  pale. 

And  hark  to  the  gush  of  the  deep  welling  fountain. 
That  prattled  and  shone  in  the  light  of  the  moon  ; 
Soon,  soon  shall  its  rushing  be  still  on  the  mountain, 
And  locked  up  in  silence  its  frolicksome  tune. 

Then  heap  up  the  hearth-stone  with  dry  forest  branches, 
And  gather  about  me,  my  children,  in  glee  ; 
For  cold  on  the  upland  the  stormy  wind  launches. 
And  dear  is  the  home  of  my  loved  ones  to  me. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE. 

By  Nathaniel  HA^VTHORNE. 

One  afternoon,  last  summer,  while  walking  along 
Washington  street,  my  eye  was  attracted  by  a  sign- 
board protruding  over  a  narrow  arch-way,  nearly  oppo- 
site the  Old  South  Church.  The  sign  represented 
the  front  of  a  stately  edifice,  which  was  designated  as 
the  ''  Old  Province  House,  kept  by  Thomas 
Waite."  I  was  glad  to  be  thus  reminded  of  a  pur- 
pose, long  entertained,  of  visiting  and  rambling  over 
the  mansion  of  the  old  royal  governors  of  Massachu- 
setts :  and  entering  the  arched  passage,  which  pene- 
trated through  the  middle  of  a  brick  row  of  shops,  a 
few  steps  transported  me  from  the  busy  heart  of 
modern  Boston,  into  a  small  and  secluded  court-yard. 
One  side  of  this  space  was  occupied  by  the  square 
front  of  the  Province  House,  three  stories  high,  and 
surmounted  by  a  cupola,  on  the  top  of  which  a  gilded 
Indian  was  discernible,  with  his  bow  bent  and  his 
arrow  on  the  string,  as  if  aiming  at  the  weathercock 
on  the  spire  of  the  Old  South.  The  figure  has  kept 
the  attitude  for  seventy  years  or  more,  ever  since  good 
deacon   Drowne,  a  cunning  carver  of  wood,  first  sta- 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  jg9 

tioned  him  on  his  long  sentinel's  watcb  over  the  city. 
The  Province  House  is  constructed  of  brick,  which 
seems  recently  to  have  been  overlaid  with  a  coat  of 
light  colored  paint.  A  flight  of  red  free-stone  steps, 
fenced  in  by  a  balustrade  of  curiously  wrought  iron, 
ascends  from  the  court-yard  to  the  spacious  porch, 
over  which  is  a  balcony,  with  an  iron  balustrade  of 
similar  pattern  and  workmanship  to  that  beneath. 
These  letters  and  figures — 16  P.  S.  79 — are  wrought 
into  the  iron  work  of  the  balcony,  and  probably  ex- 
press the  date  of  the  edifice,  with  the  initials  of  its 
founder's  name.  A  wide  door  with  double  leaves 
admitted  me  into  the  hall  or  entry,  on  the  right  of 
which  is  the  entrance  to  the  bar-room. 

It  was  in  this  apartment,  I  presume,  that  the  ancient 
governors  held  their  levees,  with  vice-regal  pomp, 
surrounded  by  the  military  men,  the  counsellors,  the 
judges,  and  other  officers  of  the  crown,  while  all  the 
loyalty  of  the  province  thronged  to  do  them  honor. 
But  the  room,  in  its  present  condition,  cannot  boast 
even  of  faded  magnificence.  The  panelled  wainscot 
is  covered  with  dingy  paint,  and  acquires  a  duskier 
hue  from  the  deep  shadow  into  which  the  Province 
House  is  thrown  by  the  brick  block  that  shuts  it  in  from 
Washington  street.  A  ray  of  sunshine  never  visits 
this  apartment  any  more  than  the  glare  of  the  festal 
torches,  which  have  been  extinguished  from  the  era 
of  the  revolution.  The  most  venerable  and  orna- 
mental object,  is  a  chimney-piece  set  round  with 
Dutch  tiles  of  blue-figured  China,  representing  scenes 
15 


no 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


from  Scripture  ;  and,  for  anght  I  know,  the  lady  of 
Pownall  or  Bernard  may  have  sate  beside  this  fire- 
place, and  told  her  children  the  story  of  each  blue 
tile.  A  bar  in  modern  style,  well  replenished  with 
decanters,  bottles,  cigar-boxes,  and  net-work  bags  of 
lemons,  and  provided  with  a  beer-pump  and  a  soda- 
fount,  extends  along  one  side  of  the  room.  At  my 
entrance,  an  elderly  person  was  smacking  his  lips, 
with  a  zest  which  satisfied  me  that  the  cellars  of  the 
Province  House  still  hold  good  liquor,  though  doubt- 
less of  other  vintages  than  were  quaffed  by  the  old 
governors.  After  sipping  a  glass  of  port-sangaree, 
prepared  by  the  skilful  hands  of  Mr.  Thomas  Waite, 
I  besought  that  worthy  successor  and  representative 
of  so  many  historic  personages  to  conduct  me  over 
their  time-honored  mansion. 

He  readily  complied  ;  but,  to  confess  the  truth,  I 
was  forced  to  draw  strenuously  upon  my  imagination, 
in  order  to  find  aught  that  was  interesting  in  a  house 
which,  without  its  historic  associations,  would  have 
seemed  merely  such  a  tavern  as  is  usually  favored  by 
the  custom  of  decent  city  boarders,  and  old  fashioned 
country  gentlemen.  The  chambers,  which  were 
probably  spacious  in  former  times,  are  now  cut  up  by 
partitions,  and  subdivided  into  little  nooks,  each  afford- 
ing scanty  room  for  the  narrow  bed,  and  chair,  and 
dressing  table,  of  a  single  lodger.  The  great  staircase, 
however,  may  be  termed,  without  much  hyperbole,  a 
feature  of  grandeur  and  magnificence.  It  winds 
through  the  midst  of  the  house  by  flights  of  broad 


\  HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  I7I 

f 

Steps,  each  flight  terminating  in  a  square  landing-place, 

whence  the  ascent  is  continued  towards  the  cupola. 
A  carved  balustrade,  freshly  painted  in  the  lower 
stories,  but  growing  dingier  as  we  ascend,  borders  the 
staircase  with  its  quaintly  twisted  and  intertwined 
pillars,  from  top  to  bottom.  Up  these  stairs  the  mili- 
tary boots,  or  perchance  the  gouty  shoes  of  many  a 
governor  have  trodden,  as  the  wearers  mounted  to  the 
cupola,  which  afforded  them  so  wide  a  view  over  their 
metropolis  and  the  surrounding  country.  The  cupola 
is  an  octagon,  with  several  windows,  and  a  door  open- 
ing upon  the  roof.  From  this  station,  as  I  pleased 
myself  with  imagining,  Gage  may  have  beheld  his 
disastrous  victory  on  Bunker  Hill,  (unless  one  of  the 
tri-mountains  intervened,)  and  Howe  have  marked 
the  approaches  of  Washington's  besieging  army  ; 
although  the  buildings,  since  erected  in  the  vicinity, 
have  shut  out  almost  every  object,  save  the  steeple  of 
the  Old  South,  w^iich  seems  almost  within  arm's 
length.  Descending  from  the  cupola,  I  paused  in  the 
garret  to  observe  the  ponderous  white-oak  frame-work, 
so  much  more  massive  than  the  frames  of  modern 
houses,  and  thereby  resembling  an  antique  skeleton. 
The  brick  walls,  the  materials  of  which  were  imported 
from  Holland,  and  the  timbers  of  the  mansion,  are 
still  as  sound  as  ever ;  but  the  floors  and  other  inte- 
rior parts  being  greatly  decayed,  it  is  contemplated  to 
gut  the  whole,  and  build  a  new  house  within  the 
ancient  frame  and  brick  work.  Among  other  incon- 
veniences of  the  present  edifice,  mine  host  mentioned 


172  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

that  any  jar  or  motion  was  apt  to  shake  down  the 
dust  of  ages  out  of  the  ceihng  of  one  chamber  upon 
the  floor  of  that  beneath  it. 

We  stepped  forth  from  the  great  front  window  into 
the  balcony,  where,  in  old  times,  it  was  doubtless  the 
custom  of  the  king's  representative  to  show  himself  to 
a  loyal  populace,  requiting  their  huzzas  and  tossed-up 
hats  with  stately  bendings  of  his  dignified  person. 
In  those  days,  the  front  of  the  Province  House  looked 
upon  the  street  ;  and  the  whole  site  now  occupied  by 
the  brick  range  of  stores,  as  well  as  the  present  court- 
yard, was  laid  out  in  grass  plats,  overshadowed  by 
trees  and  bordered  by  a  wrought  iron  fence.  Now, 
the  old  aristocratic  edifice  hides  its  time-worn  visage 
behind  an  upstart  modern  building  ;  at  one  of  the 
back  windows  I  observed  some  pretty  tailoresses, 
sewing,  and  chatting,  and  laughing,  with  now  and 
then  a  careless  glance  towards  the  balcony.  Descend- 
ing thence,  we  again  entered  the  bar-room,  where  the 
elderly  gentleman  above  mentioned,  the  smack  of  whose 
lips  had  spoken  so  favorably  for  Mr.  Waite's  good 
liquor,  was  still  lounging  in  his  chair.  He  seemed  to 
be,  if  not  a  lodger,  at  least  a  familiar  visitor  of  that 
house,  who  might  be  supposed  to  have  his  regular 
score  at  the  bar,  his  summer  seat  at  the  open  window, 
and  his  prescriptive  corner  at  the  winter's  fireside. 
Being  of  a  sociable  aspect,  I  ventured  to  address  him 
with  a  remark,  calculated  to  draw  forth  his  historical 
reminiscences,  if  any  such  were  in  his  mind  ;  and  it 
gratified   me  to  discover,  that,  between  memory  and 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  I73 

tradition,  the  old  gentleman  was  really  possessed  of 
some  very  pleasant  gossip  about  the  Province  House. 
The  portion  of  his  talk  which  chiefly  interested  me, 
was  the  outline  of  the  following  legend.  He  professed 
to  have  received  it  at  one  or  two  removes  from  an 
eye-witness  ;  but  this  derivation,  together  with  the 
lapse  of  time,  must  have  afforded  opportunities  for 
many  variations  of  the  narrative  ;  so  that,  despairing 
of  literal  and  absolute  truth,  I  have  not  scrupled  to 
make  such  further  changes  as  seemed  conducive  to 
the  reader's  profit  and  delight. 

At  one  of  the  entertainments  given  at  the  Province 
House,  during  the  latter  part  of  the  siege  of  Boston, 
there  passed  a  scene  which  has  never  yet  been  satis- 
factorily explained.  The  officers  of  the  British  army, 
and  the  loyal  gentry  of  the  province,  most  of  whom 
were  collected  within  the  beleagured  town,  had  been 
invited  to  a  masqued  ball ;  for  it  was  the  policy  of 
Sir  William  Howe  to  hide  the  distress  and  danger 
of  the  period,  and  the  desperate  aspect  of  the  siege, 
under  an  ostentation  of  festivity.  The  spectacle  of 
this  evening,  if  the  oldest  members  of  the  provincial 
court  circle  might  be  believed,  was  the  most  gay  and 
gorgeous  affair  that  had  occurred  in  the  annals  of  the 
government.  The  brilliantly  lighted  apartments  were 
thronged  with  figures  that  seemed  to  have  stepped 
from  the  dark  canvass  of  historic  portraits,  or  to  have 
flitted  forth  from  the  magic  pages  of  romance,  or  at 
least  to  have  flown  hither  from  one  of  the  London 
15* 


l^^^  THE   BOSTON   BOOK. 

theatres,  without  a  change  of  garments.  Steeled 
knights  of  the  Conquest,  bearded  statesmen  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  and  high-ruffled  ladies  of  her  court,  were 
mingled  with  characters  of  comedy,  such  as  a  parti- 
colored Merry  Andrew,  jingling  his  cap  and  bells  ;  a 
swag-paunched  FalstafFe,  almost  as  provocative  of 
laughter  as  his  prototype,  and  a  Don  Quixote,  with  a 
bean-pole  for  a  lance,  and  a  pot-lid  for  a  shield. 

But  the  broadest  merriment  was  excited  by  a 
group  of  figures  ridiculously  dressed  in  old  regimen- 
tals, which  seemed  to  have  been  purchased  at  a  mili- 
tary rag-fair,  or  pilfered  from  some  receptacle  of  the 
cast-ofF  clothes  of  both  the  French  and  British  armies. 
Portions  of  their  attire  had  probably  been  worn  at  the 
siege  of  Louisburg,  and  the  coats  of  most  recent  cut 
might  have  been  rent  and  tattered  by  sword,  ball,  or 
bayonet,  as  long  ago  as  Wolfe's  victory.  One  of 
these  worthies — a  tall,  lank  figure,  brandishing  a  rusty 
sword  of  immense  longitude — purported  to  be  no  less 
a  personage  than  General  George  Washington  ;  and 
the  other  principal  officers  of  the  American  army, 
such  as  Gates,  Lee,  Putnam,  Schuyler,  Ward  and 
Heath,  were  represented  by  similar  scare-crows.  An 
interview  in  the  mock  heroic  style,  between  the  rebel 
warriors  and  the  British  commander-in-chief,  was 
received  with  immense  applause,  which  came  loudest 
of  all  from  the  loyalists  of  the  colony.  There  was 
one  of  tlje  guests,  however,  who  stood  apart,  eyeing 
these  antics  sternly  and  scornfully,  at  once  with  a 
frown  and  a  bitter  smile. 


HOWE'S  31ASQUERADE.  I75 

It  was  an  old  man,  formerly  of  high  station  and 
great  repute  in  the  province,  and  who  had  been  a 
very  famous  soldier  in  his  day.  Some  surprise  had 
been  expressed,  that  a  person  of  Colonel  Joliffe's 
known  whig  principles;  though  now  too  old  to  take  an 
active  part  in  the  contest,  should  have  remained  in 
Boston  during  the  siege,  and  especially  that  he  should 
consent  to  show  himself  in  the  niansion  of  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe.  But  thither  he  had  come,  with  a  fair 
grand-daughter  under  his  arm  ;  and  there,  amid  all 
the  mirth  and  bulibonery,  stood  this  stem  old  figure, 
the  best  sustained  character  in  the  masquerade,  be- 
cause so  well  representing  the  antique  spirit  of  his 
native  land.  The  other  guests  affirmed  that  Colonel 
Joliffe's  black  puritanical  scowl  threw  a  shadow  round 
about  him  ;  although  in  spite  of  his  sombre  influence, 
their  gaiety  continued  to  blaze  higher,  like — (an  omi- 
nous comparison) — the  flickering  brilliancy  of  a  lamp 
which  has  but  a  little  while  to  burn.  Eleven  strokes, 
full  half  an  hour  ago,  had  pealed  from  the  clock  of 
the  Old  South,  when  a  rumor  was  circulated  among 
the  company,  that  some  new  spectacle  or  pageant 
was  about  to  be  exhibited,  which  should  put  a  fitting 
close  to  the  splendid  festivities  of  the  night. 

"  "What  new  jest  has  your  Excellency  in  hand  ? " 
asked  the  Reverend  Mather  Byles,  whose  Presbyte- 
rian scruples  had  not  kept  him  from  the  entertainment. 
"  Trust  me,  sir,  I  have  already  laughed  more  than 
beseems  my  cloth,  at  your  Homeric  confabulation 
with  yonder  ragamuffin  General  of  the  rebels.     One 


176  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Other  such  fit  of  inerriment,  and  I  must  throw  off  my 
clerical  wig  and  band." 

"  Not  so,  good  Doctor  Byles,"  answered  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe  ;  ''  if  mirth  were  a  crime,  you  had  never 
gained  your  doctorate  in  divinity.  As  to  this  new- 
foolery,  I  know  no  more  about  it  than  yourself;  per- 
haps not  so  much.  Honestly  now,  Doctor,  have  you 
not  stirred  up  the  sober  brains  of  some  of  your  country- 
men to  enact  a  scene  in  our  masquerade  ? " 

"  Perhaps,"  silly  remarked  the  grand-daughter  of 
Colonel  Joliffe,  whose  high  spirit  had  been  stung  by 
many  taunts  against  New  England — '-perhaps  we  are 
to  have  a  masque  of  allegorical  figures.  Victory, 
with  trophies  from  Lexington  and  Bunker  Hill. 
Plenty,  with  her  overflowing  horn,  to  typify  the 
present  abundance  in  this  good  town — and  Glory, 
with  a  wreath  for  his  Excellency's  brow." 

Sir  William  Howe  smiled  at  words  which  he  would 
have  ansN^ered  with  one  of  his  darkest  frowns,  had 
they  been  uttered  by  lips  that  wore  a  beard.  He 
was  spared  the  necessity  of  a  retort,  by  a  singular 
interruption.  A  sound  of  music  was  heard  without 
the  house,  as  if  proceeding  from  a  full  band  of  military 
instruments  stationed  in  the  street,  playing  not  such  a 
festal  strain  as  was  suited  to  the  occasion  ;  but  a  slow 
funeral  march.  The  drums  appeared  to  be  muffled, 
and  the  trumpets  poured  forth  a  wailing  breath,  which 
at  once  hushed  the  merriment  of  the  auditors,  filling 
all  with  wonder,  and  some  with  apprehension.  The 
idea  occurred  to  many,  that  either  the  funeral  proces- 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  I77 

sion  of  some  great  personage  had  halted  in  front  of 
the  Province  House,  or  that  a  corpse,  in  a  velvet- 
covered  and  gorgeously  decorated  coffin,  was  about  to 
be  borne  from  the  portal.  After  listening  a  moment. 
Sir  William  Howe  called,  in  a  stern  voice,  to  the 
leader  of  the  musicians,  who  had  hitherto  enlivened 
the  entertainment  with  gay  and  lightsome  melodies. 
The  man  was  drum-major  to  one  of  the  British  regi- 
ments. 

"  Dighton,"  demanded  the  General,  "  what  means 
this  foolery  ?  Bid  your  band  silence  that  dead 
march — or,  by  ray  word,  they  shall  have  sufficient 
cause  for  their  lugubrious  strains  !     Silence  it,  sirrah  ! " 

"  Please  your  honor,"  answered  the  drum-major, 
whose  rubicund  visage  had  lost  all  its  color,  "  the 
fault  is  none  of  mine.  I  and  my  band  are  all  here 
together  ;  and  I  question  whether  there  be  a  man  of 
us  that  could  play  that  march  without  book.  I  never 
heard  it  but  once  before,  and  that  was  at  the  funeral 
of  his  late  Majesty,  King  George  the  Second." 

"  Well,  well !  "  said  Sir  William  Howe,  recovering 
his  composure — "  it  is  the  prelude  to  some  masquer- 
ading antic.     Let  it  pass." 

A  figure  now  presented  itself,  but  among  the  many 
fantastic  masks  that  were  dispersed  through  the  apart- 
ments, none  could  tell  precisely  from  whence  it  came. 
It  was  a  man  in  an  old  fashioned  dress  of  black  serge, 
and  having  the  aspect  of  a  steward,  or  principal 
domestic  in  the  household  of  a  nobleman,  or  great 
English   landholder.      This  figure    advanced    to    the 


I-JQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

outer  door  of  the  mansion,  and  throwing  both  its  leaves 
wide  open,  withdrew  a  httle  to  one  side  and  looked 
back  towards  the  grand  staircase,  as  if  expecting  some 
person  to  descend.  At  the  same  time,  the  music  in 
the  street  sounded  a  loud  and  doleful  summons.  The 
eyes  of  Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  being 
directed  to  the  staircase^  there  appeared,  on  the 
uppermost  landing-place  that  was  discernible  from 
the  bottom,  several  personages  descending  towards 
the  door.  The  foremost  was  a  man  of  stern  visage, 
wearing  a  steeple-crowned  hat  and  a  skull-cap  beneath 
it ;  a  dark  cloak,  and  huge  wrinkled  boots  that  came 
halfway  up  his  legs.  Under  his  arm  was  a  rolled-up 
banner,  which  seemed  to  be  the  banner  of  England, 
but  strangely  rent  and  torn  ;  he  had  a  sword  in  his 
right  hand,  and  grasped  a  Bible  in  his  left.  The  next 
figure  was  of  milder  aspect,  yet  full  of  dignity,  wearing 
a  broad  ruff,  over  which  descended  a  beard,  a  gown 
of  wTought  velvet,  and  a  doublet  and  hose  of  black 
satin.  He  carried  a  roll  of  manuscript  in  his  hand. 
Close  behind  these  two,  came  a  young  man  of  very 
striking  countenance  and  demeanor,  with  deep  thought 
and  contemplation  on  his  brow,  and  perhaps  a  flash 
of  enthusiasm  in  his  eye.  His  garb,  like  that  of  his 
predecessors,  w^as  of  an  antique  fashion,  and  there 
W'as  a  stain  of  blood  upon  his  ruff.  In  the  same 
group  with  these,  were  three  or  four  others,  all  men  of 
dignity  and  evident  command,  and  bearing  themselves 
like  personages  who  were  accustomed  to  the  gaze  of 
the  multitude.     It  was  the  idea  of  the  beholders,  that 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  I79 

these  figures  went  to  join  the  mysterious  funeral  that 
had  halted  in  front  of  the  Province  House  ;  yet  that 
supposition  seemed  to  be  contradicted  by  the  air  of 
triumph  with  which  they  waved  their  hands,  as  they 
crossed  the  threshold  and  vanished  through  the  portal. 

"  In  the  devil's  name,  what  is  this  ? "  muttered  Sir 
William  Howe  to  a  gentleman  beside  him  ;  "  a  pro- 
cession of  the  regicide  judges  of  King  Charles  the 
martyr  ? " 

"  These,''  said  Colonel  JolifFe,  breaking  silence 
almost  for  the  first  time  that  evening — "  these,  if  I 
interpret  them  aright,  are  the  Puritan  governors — the 
rulers  of  the  old,  original  Democracy  of  Massachu- 
setts. Endicott,  with  the  banner  from  which  he  had 
torn  the  symbol  of  subjection,  and  Winthrop,  and 
Sir  Heniy  Vane,  and  Dudley,  Haynes,  Bellingham, 
and  Leverett." 

"  Why  had  that  young  man  a  stain  of  blood  upon 
his  ruff?"  asked  Miss  Joliffe. 

''  Because,  in  after  years,"  answered  her  grand- 
father, "  he  laid  down  the  w  isest  head  in  England 
upon  the  block,  for  the  principles  of  liberty." 

''  Will  not  your  Excellency  order  out  the  guard  ? " 
whispered  Lord  Percy,  who,  with  other  British  offi- 
cers, had  now  assembled  round  the  General.  "  There 
may  be  a  plot  under  this  mummery." 

"  Tush  !  we  have  nothing  to  fear,"  carelessly 
replied  Sir  William  Howe.  "  There  can  be  no 
worse  treason  in  the  matter  than  a  jest,  and  that 
somewhat  of  the  dullest.     Even  were  it  a  sharp  and 


IgO  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

bitter  one,  onr  best  policy  would  be  to  laugh  it  off. 
See — here  come  more  of  these  gentry." 

Another  group  of  characters  had  now  partly  de- 
scended the  staircase.  The  first  was  a  venerable  and 
white-headed  patriarch,  who  cautiously  felt  his  way 
downward  with  a  staff.  Treading  hastily  behind  him, 
and  stretching  forth  his  gauntleted  hand  as  if  to  grasp 
the  old  man's  shoulder,  came  a  tall,  soldier-hke  figure, 
equipped  with  a  plumed  cap  of  steel,  a  bright  breast- 
plate, and  a  long  sword,  which  rattled  against  the 
stairs.  Next  was  seen  a  stout  man,  dressed  in  rich 
and  courtly  attire,  but  not  of  courtly  demeanor ;  his 
gait  had  the  swinging  motion  of  a  seaman's  walk ; 
and  chancing  to  stumble  on  the  staircase,  he  suddenly 
grew  wrathful,  and  was  heard  to  mutter  an  oath.  He 
w^as  followed  by  a  noble-looking  personage  in  a  curled 
wig,  such  as  are  represented  in  the  portraits  of  Queen 
Anne's  time  and  earlier ;  and  the  breast  of  his  coat 
was  decorated  with  an  embroidered  star.  While 
advancing  to  the  door,  he  bowed  to  the  right  hand 
and  to  the  left,  in  a  very  gracious  and  insinuating 
style  ;  but  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  unlike  the 
early  Puritan  governors,  he  seemed  to  wring  his 
hands  with  sorrow. 

"  Prithee,  play  the  part  of  a  chorus,  good  Doctor 
Byles,"  said  Sir  William  Howe.  "  What  worthies 
are  these  ? " 

'  ''  If  it  please  your  Excellency,  they  lived  somer 
what  before  my  day,"  answered  the  doctor ;  "  but 
doubtless  our  friend,  the  Colonel,  has  been  hand  and 
glove  with  them." 


HOWE'S  3IASQUERADE.  jgl 

*'  Their  living  faces  I  never  looked  upon,"  said 
Colonel  JolifFe,  gravely ;  "  although  I  have  spoken  face 
to  face  with  many  rulers  of  this  land,  and  shall  greet 
yet  another  with  an  old  man's  blessing,  ere  I  die.  But 
we  talk  of  these  figures.  I  take  the  venerable  patri- 
arch to  be  Bradstreet,  the  last  of  the  Puritans,  who 
was  governor  at  ninety,  or  thereabouts.  The  next  is 
Sir  Edmund  Andros,  a  tyrant,  as  any  New  England 
school-boy  will  tell  you  ;  and  therefore  the  people 
cast  him  down  from  his  hidi  seat  into  a  dun£:eon. 
Then  comes  Sir  WiUiam  Phips,  shepherd,  cooper, 
sea-captain,  and  governor — may  many  of  his  country- 
men rise  as  high,  from  as  low  an  origin  !  Lastly,  you 
saw  the  gracious  Earl  of  Bellamont,  who  ruled  us 
under  King  William." 

"But  what  is  the  meanins:  of  it  all  ?  "  asked  Lord 
Percy. 

'•  Now,  were  I  a  rebel,"  said  Miss  JolifFe,  half 
aloud,  '•  I  might  fancy  that  the  ghosts  of  these  ancient 
governors  had  been  summoned  to  fain  the  funeral  pro- 
cession of  royal  authority  in  New  England." 

Several  other  gentlemen  were  now  seen  at  the  turn 
of  the  staircase.  The  one  in  advance  had  a  thoughtful, 
anxious,  and  somewhat  crafty  expression  of  face  ;  and 
in  spite  of  his  loftiness  of  manner,  which  was  evi- 
dently the  result  both  of  an  ambitious  spirit  and  of 
long  continuance  in  high  stations,  he  seemed  not  inca- 
pable of  cringing  to  a  greater  than  himself.  A.  few 
steps  behind  came  an  officer  in  a  scarlet  and  embroi- 
dered uniform,  cut  in  a  fashion  old  enough  to  have 
16 


J32  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

been  worn  by  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  His  nose 
had  a  rubicund  tinge,  which,  together  with  the  twinkle 
of  his  eye,  might  have  marked  him  as  a  lover  of  the 
wine  cup  and  good  fellowship  ;  notwithstanding  which 
tokens,  he  appeared  ill  at  ease,  and  often  glanced 
around  him,  as  if  apprehensive  of  some  secret  mis- 
chief. Next  came  a  portly  gentleman,  wearing  a  coat 
of  shaggy  cloth,  lined  with  silken  velvet;  he  had 
sense,  shrewdness,  and  humor  in  his  face,  and  a  folio 
volume  under  his  arm ;  but  his  aspect  was  that  of  a 
man  vexed  and  tormented  beyond  all  patience,  and 
harassed  almost  to  death.  He  went  hastily  down, 
and  was  followed  by  a  dignified  person,  dressed  in  a 
purple  velvet  suit,  with  very  rich  embroidery  ;  his 
demeanor  would  have  possessed  much  stateliness,  only 
that  a  grievous  fit  of  the  gout  compelled  him  to  hobble 
from  stair  to  stair,  with  contortions  of  face  and  body. 
When  Doctor  Byles  beheld  this  figure  on  the  staircase, 
he  shivered  as  with  an  ague,  but  continued  to  watch 
him  steadfastly,  until  the  gouty  gentleman  had 
reached  the  threshold,  made  a  gesture  of  anguish  and 
despair,  and  vanished  into  the  outer  gloom,  whither 
the  funeral  music  summoned  him. 

"  Governor  Belcher ! — my  old  patron  ! — in  his  very 
shape  and  dress  1"  gasped  Doctor  Byles.  "  This  is 
an  awful  mockery  ! " 

"  A  tedious  foolery,  rather,"  said  Sir  William 
Howe,  with  an  air  of  indifference.  "  But  who  were 
the  three  that  preceded  him  ?  " 

"  Governor  Dudley,  a  cunning  politician — yet  his 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  Ig3 

craft  once  brought  him  to  a  prison,"  replied  Colonel 
JolifFe.  "  Governor  Shute,  formerly  a  Colonel  under 
Marlborough,  and  whom  the  people  frightened  out  of 
the  province  ;  and  learned  Governor  Burnet,  whom 
the  legislature  tormented  into  a  mortal  fever." 

"  Methinks  they  were  miserable  men,  these  royal 
governors  of  Massachusetts,"  observed  Miss  JolifFe. 
"  Heavens,  how  dim  the  light  grows  !  " 

It  was  certainly  a  fact  that  the  large  lamp  which 
illuminated  the  staircase,  now  burned  dim  and  duskily  : 
so  that  several  figures,  which  passed  hastily  down 
the  stairs  and  went  forth  from  the  porch,  appeared 
rather  like  shadows  than  persons  of  fleshly  substance. 
Sir  William  Howe  and  his  guests  stood  at  the  doors 
of  the  contiguous  apartments,  watching  the  progress 
of  this  singular  pageant,  with  various  emotions  of 
anger,  contempt,  or  half  acknowledged  fear,  but  still 
with  an  anxious  curiosity.  The  shapes,  which  now 
seemed  hastening  to  join  the  mysterious  procession, 
were  recognized  rather  by  striking  peculiarities  of 
dress,  or  broad  characteristics  of  manner,  than  by  any 
perceptible  resemblance  of  features  to  their  proto- 
types. Their  faces,  indeed,  were  invariably  kept  in 
deep  shadow\  But  Doctor  Byles,  and  other  gentle- 
men who  had  long  been  familiar  with  tlie  successive 
rulers  of  the  province,  were  heard  to  whisper  the 
names  of  Shirley,  of  Pownall,  of  Sir  Francis  Bernard, 
and  of  the  well  remembered  Hutchinson  ;  thereby 
confessing  that  the  actors,  wdioever  they  might  be,  in 
this  spectral  march  of  governors,  had  succeeded  in 


134  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

putting  on  some  distant  portraiture  of  the  real  person- 
ages. As  they  vanished  from  the  door,  still  did  these 
shadows  toss  their  arms  into  the  gloom  of  night,  with 
a  dread  expression  of  wo.  Following  the  mimic  rep- 
resentative of  Hutchinson,  came  a  military  figure, 
holding  before  his  face  the  cocked  hat  which  he  had 
taken  from  his  powdered  head  ;  but  his  epaulettes 
and  other  insignia  of  rank  were  those  of  a  general 
officer;  and  something  in  his  mien  reminded  the  be- 
holders of  one  who  had  recently  been  master  of  the 
Province  House,  and  chief  of  all  the  land. 

"  The  shape  of  Gage,  as  true  as  in  a  looking  glass," 
exclaimed  Lord  Percy,  turning  pale. 

"  No,  surely,"  cried  Miss  Jollffe,  laughing  hysteri- 
cally ;  ''  it  could  not  be  Gage,  or  Sir  William  vvould 
have  greeted  his  old  comrade  in  arms  !  Perhaps  he 
will  not  suffer  the  next  to  pass  unchallenged." 

"  Of  that  be  assured,  young  lady,"  answered  Sir 
William  Howe,  fixing  his  eyes,  with  a  very  marked 
expression,  upon  the  immovable  visage  of  her  grand- 
father. "  I  have  long  enough  delayed  to  pay  the 
ceremonies  of  a  host  to  these  departing  guests.  The 
next  that  takes  his  leave  shall  receive  due  courtesy." 

A  wild  and  dreary  burst  of  music  came  through  the 
open  door.  It  seemed  as  if  the  procession,  which  had 
been  gradually  filling  up  its  ranks,  were  now  about  to 
move,  and  that  this  loud  peal  of  the  wailing  trumpets, 
and  roll  of  the  muflled  drums,  were  a  call  to  some 
loiterer  to  make  haste.  Many  eyes,  by  an  irresistible 
impulse,  were  turned  upon  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  Ig5 

it  were  he  whom  the  dreary  music  summoned  to  the 
funeral  of  departed  power. 

"  See  ! — here  comes  the  last ! "  whispered  Miss 
Jolifte,  pointing  her  tremulous  finger  to  the  staircase. 

A  figure  had  come  into  view  as  if  descending  the 
stairs  ;  although  so  dusky  was  the  region  whence  it 
emerged,  some  of  the  spectators  fancied  that  they 
had  seen  this  human  shape  suddenly  moulding  itself 
amid  the  gloom.  Downward  the  figure  came,  with  a 
stately  and  martial  tread,  and  reaching  the  lowest  stair 
was  observed  to  be  a  tall  man,  booted  and  wrapped 
in  a  military  cloak,  which  was  drawn  up  around  the 
face  so  as  to  meet  the  flapped  brim  of  a  laced  hat. 
The  features,  therefore,  were  completely  hidden. 
But  the  British  officers  deemed  that  they  had  seen 
that  military  cloak  before,  and  even  recognized  the 
frayed  embroidery  on  the  collar,  as  well  as  the  gilded 
scabbard  of  a  sword  which  protruded  from  the  folds 
of  the  cloak,  and  glittered  In  a  vivid  gleam  of  light. 
Apart  from  these  trifling  particulars  there  were  char- 
acteristics of  gait  and  bearing  which  impelled  the 
wondering  guests  to  glance  from  the  shrouded  figure 
to  Sir  William  Howe,  as  if  to  satisfy  themselves  that 
their  host  had  not  suddenly  vanished  from  the  midst 
of  them.  With  a  dark  flush  of  wrath  upon  his  brow, 
they  saw  the  General  draw  his  sword  and  advance  to 
meet  the  figure  in  the  cloak  before  the  latter  had 
stepped  one  pace  upon  the  floor. 

"Villain,  unmuffle  yourself!"    cried  he.     ''You 
pass  no  further  !  " 
16* 


IQQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

The  figure,  without  blenching  a  hair's  breadth  from 
the  sword  which  was  pointed  at  his  breast,  made  a 
solemn  pause  and  lowered  the  cape  of  the  cloak  from 
about  his  face,  yet  not  sufficiently  for  the  spectators 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  it.  But  Sir  William  Howe  had 
evidently  seen  enough.  The  sternness  of  his  counte- 
nance gave  place  to  a  look  of  wild  amazement,  if  not 
horror,  while  he  recoiled  several  steps  from  the  figure, 
and  let  fall  his  sword  upon  the  floor.  The  martial 
shape  again  drew  the  cloak  about  his  features  and 
passed  on  ;  but  reaching  the  threshold,  with  his  back 
towards  the  spectators,  he  was  seen  to  stamp  his 
foot  and  shake  his  clenched  hands  In  the  air.  It 
was  afterwards  affirmed  that  Sir  William  Howe  had 
repeated  that  self-same  gesture  of  rage  and  sorrow, 
when,  for  the  last  time,  and  as  the  last  royal  gov- 
ernor, he  passed  through  the  portal  of  the  Province 
House. 

"  Hark  ! — the  procession  moves,"  said  Miss  JolifFe. 

The  music  was  dying  away  along  the  street,  and 
its  dismal  strains  were  mingled  with  tlie  knell  of  mid- 
night from  the  steeple  of  the  Old  South,  and  with  the 
roar  of  artillery,  which  announced  that  ihe  beleaguer- 
ing army  of  Washington  had  intrenched  itself  upon  a 
nearer  height  than  before.  As  the  deep  boom  of  the 
cannon  smote  upon  his  ear,  Colonel  JolifFe  raised  him- 
self to  the  full  height  of  his  aged  form,  and  smiled 
sternly  on  the  British  General. 

"  Would  your  Excellency  inquire  further  into  the 
mystery  of  the  pageant  ?  "  said  he. 


HOWE'S  MASQUERADE.  Ig7 

''  Take  care  of  your  gray  head  ! "  cried  Sir  Wil- 
liam Howe,  fiercely,  though  with  a  quivering  lip. 
"  It  has  stood  too  long  on  a  traitor's  shoulders ! " 

"  You  must  make  haste  to  chop  it  off,  then," 
calmly  replied  the  Colonel ;  "  for  a  few  hours  longer, 
and  not  all  the  power  of  Sir  William  Howe,  nor  of  his 
master,  shall  cause  one  of  these  gray  hairs  to  fall. 
The  empire  of  Britain,  in  this  ancient  province,  is  at 
its  last  gasp  to-night ; — almost  while  I  speak,  it  is  a 
dead  corpse  ; — and  methinks  the  shadows  of  the  old 
governors  are  fit  mourners  at  its  funeral  1" 

With  these  words  Colonel  JolifFe  threw  on  his 
cloak,  and  drawing  his  grand-daughter's  arm  within 
his  own,  retired  from  the  last  festival  that  a  British 
ruler  ever  held  in  the  old  province  of  Massachusetts 
Bay.  It  was  supposed  that  the  Colonel  and  the 
young  lady  possessed  some  secret  intelligence  in  re- 
gard to  the  mysterious  pageant  of  that  night.  How- 
ever this  might  be,  such  knowledge  has  never  become 
general.  The  actors  in  the  scene  have  vanished  into 
deeper  obscurity  than  even  that  wild  Indian  band  who 
scattered  the  cargoes  of  the  tea  ships  on  the  waves, 
and  gained  a  place  in  history,  yet  left  no  names.  But 
superstition,  among  other  legends  of  this  mansion, 
repeats  the  wondrous  tale,  that  on  the  anniversary 
niirht  of  Britain's  discomfiture,  the  ghosts  of  the  an- 
cient  governors  of  Massachusetts  still  glide  through 
the  portal  of  tlie  Province  House.  And,  last  of  all, 
comes  a  figure  shrouded  in  a  military  cloak,  tossing 
his  clenched  hands  into  the  air,  and  stamping  his  iron- 


188 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


shod  boots  lipon  the  broad  free-stone  steps,  with  a 
semblance  of  feverish  despair,  but  without  the  sound 
of  a  foot-tramp. 

When  the  truth-telhng  accents  of  the  elderly  gen- 
tleman were  hushed,  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked 
round  the  room,  striving,  with  the  best  energy  of  my 
imag;Ination,  to  throw  a  tIno;e  of  romance  and  historic 
grandeur  over  the  realities  of  the  scene.  But  my 
nostrils  snuffed  up  a  scent  of  cigar  smoke,  clouds  of 
which  the  narrator  had  emitted  by  way  of  visible 
emblem,  I  suppose,  of  the  nebulous  obscurity  of  his 
tale.  Moreover,  my  gorgeous  fantasies  were  wofully 
disturbed  by  the  rattling  of  the  spoon  in  a  tumbler  of 
whiskey  punch,  which  Mr.  Thomas  Waite  was  ming- 
ling for  a  customer.  Nor  did  it  add  to  the  picturesque 
appearance  of  the  pannelled  walls,  that  the  slate  of 
the  Brooklyn  stage  was  suspended  against  them, 
instead  of  the  armorial  escutcheon  of  some  far- 
descended  governor.  A  stage-driver  sat  at  one  of 
the  windows,  reading  a  penny  paper  of  the  day — the 
Boston  Times — and  presenting  a  figure  which  could 
nowise  be  brought  into  any  picture  of  "  Times  in 
Boston,"  seventy  or  a  hundred  years  ago.  On  the 
window  seat  lay  a  bundle,  neatly  done  up  in  brown 
paper,  the  direction  of  which  I  had  the  idle  curiosity 
to  read.  "  Miss  Susan  Huggins,  at  the  Province 
House."  A  pretty  chamber-maid,  no  doubt.  In 
truth,  it  is  desperately  hard  work,  when  we  attempt 
to  throw  the  spell  of  hoar   antiquity  over  localities 


HOWE'S  MASQUERx\DE.  189 

with  which  the  hving  world,  and  the  day  that  is  pass- 
ing over  us,  have  aught  to  do.  Yet,  as  I  glanced  at 
the  stately  staircase,  down  which  the  procession  of 
the  old  governors  had  descended,  and  as  I  emerged 
through  the  venerable  portal,  whence  their  figures 
had  preceded  nae,  it  gladdened  me  to  be  conscious  of 
a  thrill  of  awe.  Then  diving  through  the  narrow 
archway,  a  few  strides  transported  me  into  the  densest 
throng  of  Washington  street. 


SACHEM'S   HILL. 


This  is  a  little  hill,  on  the  shore,  in  the  town  of  Quincy.  It  is  shaped 
like  an  arrow-head,  as  its  original  name,  Masentusett,  in  the  Indian 
language,  signifies  ;  Mas  meaning  arrow-head,  and  Entusett,  hill.  From 
this  spot  Boston  and  its  vicinity,  from  the  Blue  Hills  to  the  rocks  of 
Nahant,  rise  upon  the  view  like  a  panorama.  It  was  the  abode  of  the 
Sachem  when  the  English  first  arrived.  He  was  a  friendly  old  man, 
and  sold  them  corn  and  land.  Soon  after  their  arrival,  an  epidemic 
appeared  among  his  tribe  ;  and,  in  a  shoit  time,  nothing  was  left  of  them 
but  the  few  remains  that  are  still  found  of  their  simple  implements  of  war 
and  agriculture ;  and  the  name  of  this  little  hill,  which  some  suppose, 
with  a  slight  alteration^  was  given  to  this  State. 


By  Eliza  L.  Follen. 

Here,  from  this  little  hillock,  in  days  long  since  gone  by, 
Glanced  over  hill  and  valley  the  Sachem's  eagle  eye ; 
His  were  the  pathless  forests,  and  his  the  hills  so  blue. 
And  on  the  restless  ocean  danced  only  his  canoe. 

Here  stood  the  aged  chieftain,  rejoicing  in  his  glory  ; 
How  deep  the  shade  of  sadness  that  rests  upon  his  story ! 
For  the  white  man  came  with  power ;    like  brethren 

they  met ; 
But  the  Indian  fires  went  out,  and  the  Indian  sun  has  set. 

And  the  chieftain  has  departed  ;  gone  is  his  hunting 

ground  ; 
And  the  twanging  of  his  bow-string  is  a  forgotten  sound. 


SACHEM'S  HILL.  191 

Where  dwelleth  yesterday  ?  and  where  is  echo's  cell  ? 
Where  has  the  rainbow  vanished  ? — there  does  the  In- 
dian dwell. 

But  in  the  land  of  spirits  the  Indian  has  a  place, 

And  there,  'midst  saints  and  angels,  he  sees  his  Maker's 

face  : 
There  from  all  earthly  passions  his  heart  may  be  refined, 
And  the  mists  that  once  enshrouded,  be  lifted  from  his 

mind. 

And  should  his  free-born  spirit  descend  again  to  earth, 
And  here,  unseen,  revisit  the  spot  that  gave  him  birth. 
Would  not  his  altered  nature  rejoice  with  rapture  high, 
At  the  changed  and  glorious  prospect  that  now  would 
meet  his  eye  ? 

Where  nodded  pathless  forests,  there  now  are  stately 
domes ; 

Where  hungry  wolves  were  prowling,  are  quiet,  happy 
homes  ; 

Where  rose  the  savage  war-whoop,  is  heard  sweet  vil- 
lage bells. 

And  many  a  gleaming  spire,  of  faith  in  Jesus  tells. 

And  he  feels  his  soul  is  changed — 'tis  there  a  vision 

glows 
Of  more  surpassing  beauty  than  earthly  scenes  disclose  ; 
For  the  heart  that  felt  revenge,  with  boundless  love  is 

filled. 
And  the  restless  tide  of  passion  to  a  holy  calm  is  stilled. 


192  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Here  to  my  mental  vision  the  Indian  chief  appears, 
And  all  my  eager  questions  fancy  believes  he  hears. 
Oh  speak  !  thou  unseen  being,  and  the  mighty  secrets 

tell 
Of  the  land  of  deathless  glories,  where  the  departed 

dwell. 

I  cannot  dread  a  spirit — for  I  would  gladly  see 

The  veil  uplifted  round  us,  and  know  that  such  things  be. 

The  things  we  see  are  fleeting,  like  summer  flowers 

decay — 
The  things  unseen  are  real,  and  do  not  pass  away. 

The  friends  we  love  so  dearly  smile  on  us,  and  are  gone, 
And  all  is  silent  in  their  place,  and  we  are  left  alone ; 
But  the  joy  "  that  passeth  show,"  and  the  love  no  arm 

can  sever, 
And   all  the  treasures  of  their  souls,  shall  be  with  us 

forever. 


LIFE   IN   SWEDEN. 


By  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


Life  In  Sweden  is  for  the  most  part  patriarchal. 
Ahnost  primeval  simplicity  reigns  over  this  Northern 
land — almost  primeval  solitude  and  stillness.  You 
pass  out  from  the  gate  of  the  city,  and,  as  If  by 
magic,  the  scene  changes  to  a  v.ild,  woodland  land- 
scape. Around  you  are  forests  of  fir.  Over  head 
hang  the  long,  fan-like  branches,  trailing  with  moss, 
and  heavy  with  red  and  blue  cones.  Under  foot  is  a 
carpet  of  yellow  leaves ;  and  the  air  is  warm  and 
balmy.  On  a  wooden  bridge  you  cross  a  little  silver 
stream.  Anon  you  come  forth  into  a  pleasant  and 
sunny  land  of  farms.  Wooden  fences  divide  the  ad- 
joining fields.  Across  the  road  are  gates,  which  are 
opened  for  you  by  troops  of  children.  The  peasants 
take  oft'  their  hats  as  you  pass.  You  sneeze,  and  they 
cry,  God  bless  you.  The  houses  in  the  villages  and 
smaller  cities  are  all  built  of  hewn  timber,  and  for  the 
most  part  painted  red.  The  floors  of  the  taverns  are 
strewn  with  the  fragrant  tips  of  fir  boughs.  In  many 
villages  there  are  no  taverns,  and  the  peasants  take 
turns  in  receiving  travellers.  The  thrifty  housewife 
17 


194  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

shows  you  into  the  best  chamber,  the  walls  of  which 
are  hung  round  with  rude  pictures  from  the  Bible  ; 
and  brings  you  her  heavy  silver  spoons — an  heir- 
loom— wherewith  to  dip  the  curdled  milk  from  the 
pan.  You  have  oaten  cakes  baked  some  months 
before  ;  or  bread  with  anise-seed  and  coriander  in  it, 
and  perhaps  a  little  pine  bark. 

Meanwhile  the  sturdy  husband  has  brought  his 
horses  from  the  plough,  and  harnessed  them  to  your 
carriage.  Solitary  travellers  come  and  go  in  uncouth 
one-horse  chaises.  Most  of  them  have  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  and  hanging  around  their  necks  in  front,  a 
leathern  wallet,  wherein  they  carry  tobacco,  and  the 
great  bank-note  of  the  country,  as  large  as  your  two 
hands.  You  meet,  also,  groups  of  Dalekarlian  pea- 
sant women,  travelling  homeward  or  city-ward  in  pur- 
suit of  work.  They  walk  barefoot,  carrying  in  their 
hands  their  shoes,  which  have  high  heels  under  the 
hollow  of  the  foot,  and  soles  of  birch  bark. 

Frequent,  too,  are  the  village  churches,  standing  by 
the  road-side,  each  in  its  own  little  garden  of  Gethse- 
mane.  In  the  parish  register  great  events  are  doubt- 
less recorded.  Some  old  king  was  christened  or 
buried  in  that  church  ;  and  a  little  sexton,  with  a 
great  rusty  key,  shows  you  the  baptismal  font,  or  the 
coffin.  In  the  church-yard  are  a  few  flowers,  and 
much  green  grass ;  and  daily  the  shadow  of  the 
church  spire,  with  its  long  tapering  finger,  counts  the 
tombs,  thus  representing  an  index  of  human  life,  on 
which  the  hours  and  minutes  are  the  graves  of  men. 
The  stones  are  flat,  and  large,  and  low,  and  perhaps 


LIFE  IN  SWEDEN.  I95 

sunken,  like  the  roofs  of  old  houses.  On  some  are 
armorial  bearings  ;  on  others  only  the  initials  of  the 
poor  tenants,  with  a  date,  as  on  the  roofs  of  Dutch 
cottages.  They  all  sleep  with  their  heads  to  the  west- 
ward. Each  held  a  lighted  taper  in  his  hand  when 
he  died  ;  and  in  his  coffin  were  placed  his  little  heart- 
treasures,  and  a  piece  of  money  for  his  last  journey. 
Babes  that  came  lifeless  into  the  world  were  carried 
in  the  arms  of  gray-haired  old  men  to  the  only  cradle 
they  ever  slept  in  ;  and  in  the  shroud  of  the  dead 
mother  were  laid  the  little  garments  of  the  child,  that 
lived  and  died  in  her  bosom.  And  over  this  scene 
the  village  pastor  looks  from  his  window  in  the  still- 
ness of  midniglit,  and  says  in  his  heart,  How  quietly 
they  rest,  all  tlie  departed  ! 

Near  the  church-yard  gate  stands  a  poor-box,  fast- 
ened to  a  post  by  iron  bands,  and  secured  by  a  padlock, 
with  a  sloping  wooden  roof  to  keep  off  the  rain.  If  it 
be  Sunday,  the  peasants  sit  on  the  church  steps  and 
con  their  psalm-books.  Otliers  are  coming  down  the 
road  with  their  beloved  pastor,  who  talks  to  them  of 
holy  things  from  beneath  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  He 
speaks  of  fields  and  harvests,  and  of  the  parable  of 
the  sower  that  w^ent  forth  to  sow.  He  leads  them  to 
the  good  Shepherd,  and  to  the  pleasant  pastures  of  the 
spirit-land.  He  is  their  patriarch,  and,  like  Melchize- 
dek,  both  priest  and  king,  though  he  has  no  other 
throne  than  the  church  pulpit.  The  women  carry 
psalm-books  in  their  hands,  wrapped  in  silk  handker- 
chiefs, and  listen  devoutly  to  the  good  man's  words. 
But  the  young  men,  like    Gallio,  care    for  none  of 


J  96  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

these  things.  They  are  busy  counting  the  plaits  in 
the  kirtles  of  the  peasant  girls,  their  number  being  an 
indication  of  the  wearer's  wealth.  It  may  end  in  a 
wedding. 

I  must  describe  a  vlllaore  wedding;  in  Sweden.  It 
shall  be  in  summer  time,  that  there  may  be  flowers, 
and  in  a  southern  province,  that  the  bride  may  be 
fair.  The  early  song  of  the  lark  and  of  chanticleer 
are  mingling  in  the  clear  morning  air,  and  the  sun,  the 
heavenly  bridegroom  with  golden  locks,  arises  in  the 
east,  just  as  Olof  Olofsson,  our  earthly  bridegroom 
with  yellow  hair,  arises  in  the  south.  In  the  yard 
there  is  a  sound  of  voices  and  trampling  of  hoofs,  and 
horses  are  led  forth  and  saddled.  The  steed  that  is 
to  bear  the  bridegroom  has  a  bunch  of  flowers  upon 
his  forehead,  and  a  garland  of  blue-bottles  or  corn- 
flowers around  his  neck.  Friends  from  the  neighbor- 
ing farms  come  riding  in,  their  blue  cloaks  streaming 
to  the  wind  ;  and  finally  the  happy  bridegroom,  with 
a  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a  monstrous  nosegay  in  the 
breast  of  his  black  jacket,  comes  forth  from  his  cham.- 
ber  ;  and  then  to  horse  and  away,  towards  the  village 
where  the  bride  already  sits  and  waits. 

Foremost  rides  the  Spokesman,  followed  by  some 
half  dozen  villaoje  musicians,  all  blowing;  and  drum- 
ming  and  fifing  away  like  mad.  Then  comes  the 
bridegroom  between  his  two  groomsmen,  and  then 
forty  or  fifty  friends  and  wedding  guests,  half  of  them 
perhaps  with  pistols  and  guns  in  their  hands.  A  kind 
of  baggage-wagon  brings  up  the  rear,  laden  with  meat 
and  drink  for  these  merry  pilgrims.     At  the  entrance 


LIFE   IN  SWEDEN.  I97 

of  every  village  stands  a  triumphal  arch,  adorned  with 
flowers  and  ribands  and  evergreens  ;  and  as  they 
pass  beneath  it  the  wedding  guests  fire  a  brave  salute, 
and  the  whole  procession  stops.  And  straight  from 
every  pocket  flies  a  black-jack,  filled  with  punch  or 
brandy.  It  is  passed  from  hand  to  hand  among  the 
crowd  ;  provisions  are  brought  from  the  wagon  of  the 
sumpter  horse,  and  after  eating  and  drinking  and  loud 
hurrahs,  the  procession  moves  forward  again,  and  at 
lenojth  draws  near  the  house  of  the  bride.  Four 
heralds  ride  forward  to  announce  that  a  knight  and 
his  attendants  are  in  the  neighboring  forest,  and  pray 
for  hospitality.  How  many  are  you  ?  asks  the  bride's 
father.  At  least  three  hundred,  is  the  answer  ;  and 
to  this  the  host  replies,  Yes,  were  you  seven  times 
as  many,  you  should  all  be  w^elcome  ;  and  in  token 
thereof  receive  this  cup.  Whereupon  each  herald 
receives  a  can  of  ale  ;  and  soon  after  the  whole  jovial 
company  comes  storming  into  the  farmer's  yard,  and, 
riding  round  the  May-pole,  which  stands  in  the  centre 
thereof,  alights  amid  a  grand  salute  and  flourish  of 
music. 

In  the  hall  sits  the  ])ride,  with  a  crown  upon  her 
head  and  a  tear  in  her  eye,  like  the  Virgin  Mary  in 
old  church  paintings.  She  is  dressed  in  a  red  boddlce 
and  kirtle,  with  loose  linen  sleeves.  Tliere  is  a 
gilded  belt  around  her  waist  ;  and  around  her  neck 
strings  of  gilded  beads,  and  a  gilded  chain.  On  the 
crown  rests  a  wreath  of  wild  roses,  and  below  it 
another  of  cypress.  Loose  over  her  shoulders  falls 
her  flaxen  hair  ;  and  her  blue  innocent  eyes  are  fixed 
17* 


igQ  THE   BOSTON  BOOK, 

upon  the  ground.  O  thou  good  soul !  thou  hast  hard 
hands,  but  n  soft  heart !  Thou  art  poor.  The  very 
ornaments  thou  wearest  are  not  thine.  They  have 
been  hired  for  this  great  day.  Yet  art  thou  rich  ; 
rich  in  health,  rich  in  hope,  rich  in  thy  first,  young, 
fervent  love.  The  blessing  of  heaven  be  upon  thee  1 
So  thinks  the  parish  priest,  as  he  joins  together  the 
hands  of  bride  and  bridegroom,  saying  in  deep, 
solemn  tones — I  give  thee  in  marriage  this  damsel,  to 
be  thy  wedded  wife  in  all  honor,  and  to  share  the  half 
of  thy  bed,  thy  lock  and  key,  and  every  third  penny 
which  you  two  may  possess,  or  may  inherit,  and  all 
the  rights  which  Upland's  laws  provide,  and  the 
holy  king  Erik  gave. 

The  dinner  is  now  served,  and  the  bride  sits  be- 
tween the  bridegroom  and  the  priest.  The  Spokes- 
man delivers  an  oration  after  the  ancient  custom  of 
his  fathers.  He  interlards  it  well  with  quotations  from 
the  Bible  ;  and  invites  the  Saviour  to  be  present  at 
this  marriage  feast,  as  he  was  at  the  marriage  feast  in 
Cana  of  Galilee.  The  table  is  not  sparingly  set  forth. 
Each  makes  a  long  arm,  and  the  feast  goes  cheerly 
on.  Punch  and  brandy  go  round  between  the  courses, 
and  here  and  there  a  pipe  smoked,  while  waiting  for 
the  next  dish.  They  sit  long  at  table ;  but,  as  all 
things  must  have  an  end,  so  must  a  Swedish  dinner. 
Then  the  dance  begins.  It  is  led  off  by  the  bride 
and  the  priest,  who  perform  a  solemn  minuet  together. 
Not  till  after  midnight  comes  the  Last  Dance.  The 
girls  form  a  ring  around  the  bride,  to  keep  her  from 
the  hands  of  the  married  women,  who  endeavor  to 


LIFE  IN  SWEDEN.  I99 

break  through  the  magic  circle,  and  seize  their  new 
sister.  After  long  struggling  they  succeed  ;  and  the 
crown  is  taken  from  her  head  and  the  jewels  from  her 
neck,  and  her  boddice  is  unlaced  and  her  kirtle  taken 
ofl';  and  like  a  vestal  virgin  clad  all  in  white  she 
goes,  but  it  is  to  her  marriage  chamber,  not  to  her 
grave  ;  and  the  wedding  guests  follow  her  with 
lighted  candles  in  their  hands.  And  this  is  a  village 
bridal. 

Nor  must  I  forget  the  sudden  changing  seasons  of 
the  Northern  clime.  There  is  no  long  and  lingering 
spring,  unfolding  leaf  and  blossom  one  by  one  ; — 
no  long  and  lingering  autumn,  pompous  with  many- 
colored  leaves  and  the  glow  of  Indian  summers.  But 
winter  and  summer  are  wonderful,  and  pass  into  each 
other.  The  quail  has  hardly  ceased  piping  in  the 
corn,  when  winter  from  the  folds  of  trailing  clouds 
sows  broad-cast  over  the  land  snow,  icicles,  and 
rattling  hail.  The  days  v^ane  apace.  Ere  long  the 
sun  hardly  rises  above  the  horizon,  or  does  not  rise  at 
all.  The  moon  and  the  stars  shine  through  the  day  ; 
only,  at  noon,  they  are  pale  and  wan,  and  in  the 
southern  sky  a  red,  fiery  glow,  as  of  sunset,  burns 
along  the  horizon,  and  then  goes  out.  And  plea- 
santly under  the  silver  moon,  and  under  the  silent, 
solemn  stars,  ring  the  steel-shoes  of  the  skaters  on  the 
frozen  sea,  and  voices,  and  the  sound  of  bells. 

And  now  the  Northern  Lights  begin  to  burn, 
faintly  at  first,  like  sunbeams  playing  in  the  waters  of 
the  blue  sea.  Then  a  soft  crimson  glow  tinges  tlie 
heavens.     Tliere  is  a  blush  on  the  cheek  of  night. 


200  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

The  colors  come  and  go  ;  and  change  from  crimson 
to  gold  J  from  gold  to  crimson.  The  snow  is  stained 
with  rosy  light.  Twofold  from  the  zenith,  east  and 
west,  flames  a  fiery  sword  ;  and  a  broad  band  passes 
athwart  the  heavens,  like  a  summer  sunset.  Soft 
purple  clouds  come  sailing  over  the  sky,  and  through 
their  vapory  folds  the  winking  stars  shine  white  as 
silver.  With  such  pomp  as  this  is  Merry  Christmas 
ushered  in,  though  only  a  single  star  heralded  the 
first  Christmas.  And  in  memory  of  that  day  the 
Swedish  peasants  dance  on  straw ;  and  the  peasant 
girls  thrown  straws  at  the  timbered  roof  of  the  hall,  and 
for  every  one  that  sticks  in  a  crack  shall  a  grooms- 
man come  to  their  wedding.  Merry  Christmas  in- 
deed !  For  pious  souls  there  shall  be  church  songs 
and  sermons,  but  for  Swedish  peasants,  brandy  and 
nut-brown  ale  in  wooden  bowls ;  and  the  great  Yule- 
cake  crowned  with  a  cheese,  and  garlanded  with 
apples,  and  upholding  a  three-armed  candlestick  over 
the  Christmas  feast.  They  may  tell  tales,  too,  of 
Jons  Lundsbracka,  and  Lunkenfus,  and  the  great 
Riddar  Finke  of  Pingsdaga.* 

And  now  the  glad,  leafy  mid-summer,  full  of  blos- 
soms and  the  song  of  nightingales,  is  come  !  Saint 
John  has  taken  the  flowers  and  festival  of  heathen 
Balder  ;  and  in  every  village  there  is  a  May-pole 
fifty  feet  high,  with  wreaths  and  roses  and  ribands 
streaming  in  the  wind,  and  a  noisy  weathercock  on 
top,  to  tell  the  village  whence  the  wind  cometh  and 

*  Titles  of  Swedish  popular  tales. 


LIFE  L\  SWEDEN.  201 

whither  it  goeth.  The  snn  does  not  set  till  ten 
o'clock  at  night  ;  and  the  children  are  at  play  in  the 
streets  an  hour  later.  The  windows  and  doors  are 
all  open,  and  you  may  sit  and  read  till  midnight  with- 
out a  candle.  O  how  beautiful  is  the  summer  night, 
which  is  not  night,  but  a  sunless  yet  unclouded  day, 
descending  upon  earth  with  dews,  and  shadows,  and 
refreshing  coolness  !  How  beautiful  the  long,  mild 
twilight,  which  like  a  silver  clasp  unites  to-day  with 
yesterday  !  How  beautiful  the  silent  hour,  when 
Morning  and  Evening  thus  sit  together,  hand  in  hand, 
beneath  the  starless  sky  of  midnight !  From  the 
church-tower  in  the  public  square  the  bell  tolls  the 
liour,  with  a  soft,  musical  chime  ;  and  the  watchman, 
whose  watch-tower  is  the  belfry,  blows  a  blast  in  his 
horn,  for  each  stroke  of  the  hammer,  and  four  times, 
to  the  four  corners  of  the  heavens,  in  a  sonorous 
voice  thus  chanteth  he — 

Ho  !  watchman,  ho  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock  ! 
God  keep  our  town 
From  fire  and  brand 
And  hostile  hand  ! 
Twelve  is  the  clock ! 

From  his  swallow's  nest  in  the  belfry  he  can  see 
the  sun  all  night  long  ;  and  farther  north  the  priest 
stands  at  his  door  in  the  warm  midnight,  and  lights 
his  pipe  with  a  common  burning  glass. 


I 

I 

1 
I 

I 

( 
TO  MY  MOTHER  IN   NEW   ENGLAND. 


By  William  B.  Tappan.  i 

I 


Mother  !  six  summer  suns  have  flown 

Since  thou  and  I  have  met ; 
And  though  this  heart  has  wept  alone, 

It  never  could  forget 
The  happy  hours  of  infancy, 

The  hours  unknown  to  care — 
When  sheltered  in  a  mother's  love 

It  fondly  nestled  there. 

Mother  !   I  well  remember  thou 

Wouldst  smile  upon  thy  boy  ; 
And  warmly  on  his  childish  brow, 

Imprint  the  kiss  of  joy. 
I  wondered  why  my  gladness  then 

Was  changed  to  sudden  fear. 
When  on  my  glowing  cheek  I  felt 

The  traces  of  a  tear. 

And  memory  lingers  at  the  hour 

When,  leaving  all  my  play, 
I  sought  her  presence,  from  whose  smiles 

I  was  not  wont  to  stray. 


TO  MY  MOTHER  L\  NEW  ENGLAND.  ^03 

I  was  my  mother's  boy  I  knew, 

Yet  was  I  much  to  blame  ? 
For  pleasure  of  the  heart  like  this, 

The  world  has  not  a  name. 

I  slept — but  thou  couldst  not,  for  oft 

My  sleep,  unquiet,  told 
Of  sickness  stealing  o'er  my  frame. 

And  midnight  saw  thee  hold 
Thy  child  within  thy  wearied  arms. 

Whilst  thou,  to  nature  true, 
Wouldst  soothe  ray  frequent  pain  with  all 

A  mother's  love  could  do. 

Long  years  have  wandered  by  since  then, 

And  I  have  sped  my  way 
Far  from  New  England's  hills,  where  I 

First  hailed  the  laughing  day  : 
Yet,  Mother  !  truant  thought  returns 

And  lingers  oft  with  thee  ; 
Hast  thou  not,  O  my  Mother,  yet 

A  blessing  left  for  me  ! 

Thou  art  not  what  thou  wast,  for  age 

Has  silvered  o'er  thy  hair  ; 
Thy  eye  is  dim,  thy  cheek  is  pale — 

Time  sets  his  signet  there  ; 
Y^et  dearer,  dearer  to  this  heart, 

Thy  reverend  hoary  head. 
My  Mother  !  than  the  auburn  locks 

That  youth  upon  thee  shed. 


204  THE   BOSTON   BOOK. 

How  could  it  fail  to  touch  my  heart 

With  filial  thought,  when  I 
Knew  it  was  care  for  me  that  paled 

Thy  cheek,  and  dimmed  thy  eye  ? 
Yes,  eloquent  the  tender  glance 

That  thou  dost  turn  on  me  ; 
Dimly,  yet  kindly — in  that  look. 

How  much  of  love  I  see  ! 

Be  it  my  lot  to  smooth  the  way, 

Before  thy  pilgrim  feet ; 
And  cause  the  heart'  that  yearned  for  me, 

Long,  long  with  hope  to  beat. 
Be  it  my  lot  to  pillow  where 

Thou  seek'st  thy  last  repose  ; 
One  little  flower  shall  mark  the  spot— 

The  simple  church-yard  rose. 


THE  PREACHING  OF   WHITEFIELD. 

By  Mrs.  Child. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  appearance  of  this  extra- 
ordinary man,  which  would  lead  you  to  suppose  that 
a  Felix  could  tremble  before  him.  "■  He  was  some- 
thing above  the  middle  stature,  well  proportioned,  and 
remarkable  for  a  native  gracefulness  of  manner.  His 
complexion  was  very  fair,  his  features  regular,  and  his 
dark  blue  eyes  small  and  lively  :  in  recovering  from 
the  measles,  he  had  contracted  a  squint  with  one  of 
them  ;  but  this  peculiarity  rather  rendered  the  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  more  rememberable,  than  in 
any  degree  lessened  the  effect  of  its  uncommon 
sweetness.  His  voice  excelled,  both  in  melody  and 
compass ;  and  its  fine  modulations  were  happily 
accompanied  by  that  grace  of  action,  wdiich  he  pos- 
sessed in  an  eminent  degree,  and  which  has  been  said 
to  be  the  chief  requisite  for  an  orator."  To  have 
seen  him  when  he  first  commenced,  one  would  have 
thought  him  any  thing  but  enthusiastic  and  glowing ; 
but,  as  he  proceeded,  his  heart  warmed  with  his 
subject,  and  his  manner  became  impetuous  and  ani- 
mated, till,  forgetful  of  every  thing  around  him,  he 
18 


2Qg  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

seemed  to  kneel  at  the  throne  of  Jehovah,  and  to 
beseech  in  agony  for  his  fellow  beings. 

After  he  had  finished  his  prayer,  he  knelt  for  a 
long  time  in  profound  silence  ;  and  so  powerfully  had 
it  affected  the  most  heartless  of  his  audience,  that  a 
stillness  like  that  of  the  tomb  pervaded  the  whole 
house.  Before  he  commenced  his  sermon,  long, 
darkening  columns  crowded  the  bright  sunny  sky  of 
the  morning,  and  swept  their  dull  shadows  over  the 
building,  in  fearful  augury  of  the  storm. 

His  text  was,  ^'  Strive  to  enter  in  at  the  strait 
gate  ;  for  many,  I  say  unto  you,  shall  seek  to  enter 
in,  and  shall  not  be  able."  "  See  that  emblem  of 
human  life,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  shadow  that  was 
flitting  across  the  floor.  "  It  passed  for  a  moment, 
and  concealed  the  brightness  of  heaven  from  our 
view ; — but  it  is  gone.  And  where  will  ye  be,  my 
hearers,  when  your  lives  have  passed  away  like  that 
dark  cloud  ?  Oh,  my  dear  friends,  I  see  thousands 
sitting  attentive,  with  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  poor, 
unworthy  preacher.  In  a  few  days,  we  shall  all  meet 
at  the  judgment-seat  of  Christ.  We  shall  form  a 
part  of  that  vast  assembly  that  will  gather  before  the 
throne  ;  and  every  eye  will  behold  the  Judge.  With 
a  voice  whose  call  you  must  abide  and  answer,  he 
will  inquire  whether  on  earth  ye  strove  to  enter  in  at 
the  strait  gate  ;  whether  you  were  supremely  devoted 
to  God  ;  whether  your  hearts  were  absorbed  in  him. 
My  blood  runs  cold  when  I  think  how  many  of  you 
will  then  seek  to  enter  in,  and  shall  not  be  able.     Oh, 


THE   PREACHING  OF  WHITEFIELD.  207 

what  plea  can  you  make  before  the  Judge  of  the 
whole  earth  ?  Can  you  say  it  has  been  your  whole 
endeavor  to  mortify  the  flesh,  with  its  afiectlons  and 
lusts  ?  that  your  life  has  been  one  long  effort  to  do 
the  will  of  God  ?  No  !  you  must  answer,  I  made 
myself  easy  in  the  world  by  flattering  myself  that  all 
would  end  well ;  but  I  have  deceived  my  own  soul, 
and  am  lost. 

''  You,  oh  false  and  hollow  Christian,  of  what  avail 
will  it  be  that  you  have  done  many  things  ;  that  you 
have  read  much  in  the  sacred  word  ;  that  you  have 
made  long  prayers  ;  that  you  have  attended  religious 
duties,  and  appeared  holy  in  the  eyes  of  men  ?  What 
will  all  this  be,  if,  instead  of  loving  Him  supremely, 
you  have  been  supposing  you  should  exalt  yourself  in 
heaven  by  acts  really  polluted  and  unholy  ? 

'^  And  you,  rich  man,  wherefore  do  you  hoard  your 
silver  ?  wherefore  count  the  price  you  have  received 
for  him  whom  you  every  day  crucify  in  your  love  of 
gain  ?  Why,  that,  w^hen  you  are  too  poor  to  buy  a 
drop  of  cold  water,  your  beloved  son  may  be  rolled  to 
hell  in  his  chariot  pillowed  and  cushioned  around 
him." 

His  eye  gradually  lighted  up,  as  he  proceeded,  till 
towards  the  close,  it  seemed  to  sparkle  with  celestial 
fire. 

"  Oh,  sinners  !  "  he  exclaimed,  "  by  all  your  hopes 
of  happiness,  I  beseech  you  to  repent.  Let  not  the 
wrath  of  God  be  awakened.  Let  not  the  fires  of 
eternity  be  kindled  against  you.     "  See  there  !  "  said 


208  THE   BOSTON   BOOK. 

he,  pointing  to  the  hghtning  which  played  on  the 
corner  of  the  pulpit — "  'T  is  a  glance  from  the  angry 
eye  of  Jehovah  !  Hark !  "  continued  he,  raising  his 
tinger  in  a  listening  attitude,  as  the  distant  thunder 
grew  louder  and  louder,  and  broke  in  one  tremendous 
crash  over  the  building.  '^  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
Almighty  as  he  passed  by  in  his  anger  ! " 

As  the  sound  died  away,  he  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  and  knelt  beside  his  pulpit,  apparently  lost 
in  inward  and  intense  prayer.  The  storm  passed 
rapidly  away,  and  the  sun,  bursting  forth  in  his  might, 
threw  across  the  heavens  a  magnificent  arch  of  peace. 
Rising,  and  pointing  to  the  beautiful  object,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Look  upon  the  rainbow,  and  praise  him 
that  made  it.  Very  beautiful  it  is  in  the  brightness 
thereof.  It  compasseth  the  heavens  about  with  glory; 
and  the  hands  of  the  Most  High  have  bended  it." 

The  effect  was  astonishing.  Even  Somerville 
shaded  his  eyes  when  he  pointed  to  the  lightning,  and 
knelt  as  he  listened  to  the  approaching  thunder ; 
while  the  deep  sensibility  of  Grace,  and  the  thought- 
less vivacity  of  Lucretia,  yielded  to  the  powerful 
excitement  in  an  unrestrained  burst  of  tears.  "  Who 
could  resist  such  eloquence  ?  "  said  Lucretia,  as  they 
mingled  with  the  departing  throng. 


GATHERING  OF  THE  FAIRIES. 


By  RuFus  Dawes. 

'TwAs  midsummer's  eve,  and  the  stars  were  dim. 
For  the  fays  had  stolen  their  lamps  away 
To  fill  the  moon,  till  her  silver  brim 
Ran  over  with  light,  in  their  jocund  play ; 
And  over  the  earth,  wherever  it  went, 
It  spread  like  a  smile  upon  beauty's  lips, 
When  fancy-free,  and  no  clouds  eclipse 
Her  bosom's  unmarbled  firmament. 
And  heavenly  sylphs  from  the  milky  way, 
With  spangled  garments  of  snowy  whiteness, 
Flooded  the  skies  with  their  brilliant  eyes, 
And  dashed  the  moon  with  a  clearer  brightness. 
For  all  of  heaven  and  all  of  earth, 
Of  the  holy  sylphs  and  the  potent  fays. 
Were  called  to  revel  with  dance  and  mirth, 
On  midsummer's  eve  in  the  festal  blaze. 

With  the  glad  hurra  and  the  loud  halloo, 
They  heard  the  whip-poor-will's  evening  cry, 
And  thousands  were  sporting  with  drops  of  dew, 
They  chased  as  they  fell  from  the  evening  sky  ; 
Some  dancing  the  rope  which  the  spider  threw 
From  bush  to  bush  and  from  tree  to  tree, 
18* 


210  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Or  riding  the  murmuring  honey-bee  ; 

For  they  stormed  the  hive  where  the  workers  slept, 

In  festoons  from  their  waxen  walls, 

And  laughed  aloud  as  the  queen  bee  wept 

At  their  mischievous  pranks  in  her  luscious  halls; 

They  sipped  the  sweets  from  her  choicest  cells, 

And  pilfered  the  bee-bread  garnered  there  ; 

And  when  they  had  emptied  the  nectar  wells. 

They  whipped  the  drones  till  their  bones  were  bare  ; 

But  they  promised,  before  the  morning's  sun, 

To  make  amends  for  the  mischief  done. 

Then  one  sprang  up  on  the  queen  bee's  back, 
And  spurred  her  sides  with  a  nettle  sting, 
And  away  she  went  with  a  bounding  spring, 
With  a  myriad  tribe  in  her  airy  track, 
Each  with  a  fay  and  a  honey  sack. 
'T  was  a  restless  time  to  the  weary  bees, 
And  every  insect  that  builds  by  day, 
Whether  it  lived  in  the  thick-leafed  trees. 
Or  couched  in  the  moss  where  the  cold  snake  lay : 
For  some  ran  down  in  the  red  ant's  cave, 
And  beat  their  slaves  and  milked  their  kine, 
Then  ranged  themselves  with  their  fair  and  brave. 
And  ate  their  viands  and  drank  their  wine ; 
While  many  a  jest  rang  out  aloud, 
About  the  giants  that  roam  the  earth, 
Their  certain  death  and  their  helpless  birth. — 
The  red  ant's  palace  was  in  a  shroud  ! 

Others  have  gathered  a  fragrant  store 
Of  the  damask  rose,  which  they  quickly  bring 


GATHERING  OF  THE  FAIRIES.  211 

To  the  Teasel's  dewy  reservoir, 

And  with  feathers  brushed  from  the  butterfly's  wing. 

They  skim  the  atter  that  floats  above, 

Each  drop  a  gift  to  a  fairy  love. 

Some  are  decked  out  in  Violet  leaves, 

Powdered  all  over  with  dust  of  Fern, 

Their  mantle  the  web  which  the  spider  weaves, 

With  batons  they  stole  from  the  Lily's  urn  ; 

And  they  march  to  the  sound  of  the  brown  ant's  drum, 

Musquito's  trumpet,  and  beetle's  hum, 

Rousing  the  leaves  from  their  vesper  fold. 

And  waking  the  slumbering  Marigold. 

Now  the  bat,  from  his  hiding  hole. 

Wheels  through  the  air  on  fluttering  pinions, 

The  beetle  soars  from  his  labored  mole, 

And  Paddock  calls,  in  drowsy  dole. 

That  the  fairy-queen  comes  to  her  earth's  dominions. 

And  first,  in  garments  of  living  green. 
Like  sea-weed  heaving  to  reach  the  shore, 
A  numberless  crowed  of  elves  are  seen. 
On  fire-flies  riding,  like  knights  of  yore ; 
Briar-stings  were  the  spears  they  bore. 
Their  bridles  the  thatch  of  the  silk-worm's  shed. 
Their  fleecy  plumes  from  the  white-moth's  wing, 
And  down  they  came  where  the  moonbeam  spread 
Its  shadowless  light  on  a  Violet  bed, 
Gayly  around  it  hovering. 

*'  The  queen  !  the  queen  !" — and  a  band  appeared 
In  courtly  dresses  of  richest  dyes ; 
While  a  troop  of  fays  on  the  moonbeams  neared, 


212  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Clad  in  a  thousand  fantasies  : 

Some  in  the  Protea's  golden  leaves, 

That  waved  and  dashed  like  a  flaming  sea  ; 

Others  were  dressed  from  the  Silver-tree, 

Fastened  with  threads  the  silk-worm  weaves ; 

The  Hyacinth  came  in  a  virgin  dress, 

The  Jonquil  brought  her  fragrant  flower, 

And  sweet  Narcissus,  for  the  hour, 

Gave  up  his  mirrored  loveliness. 

The  broad  Carnation  spread  her  leaf, 

And  Amyrillis,  with  a  bell 

Bri)nful  of  fragrance,  deigned  to  swell 

The  arbor  of  the  fairy-chief. 

A  Nautilus  shell  was  her  palanquin. 

And  there  the  fair  Titania  sat, 

Fairer  than  all  who  are  formed  to  win. 

And  still  unwon,  to  be  wondered  at ; 

The  car  was  lashed  to  a  varapyre's  back. 

That  was  doomed  to  atone  for  a  deed  of  blood, 

To  skim  the  air  and  to  swim  the  flood. 

And  bear  all  day  the  sunbeam's  rack. 

To  fly  no  more  in  the  moon's  free  ray. 

Till  the  crime  of  murder  were  washed  away, 


WESTWARD    MOVEMENT   OF   CIVILIZA- 
TION. 

By  J.  L.  Motley. 

Decidedly  one  of  the  most  interesting  points  in  the 
past  history  of  the  United  States,  is  the  striking  illus- 
tration it  has  afforded  of  the  great  law  of  civilization, 
its  movement  from  east  to  west.  It  was  a  direct  and 
startling  demonstration  of  the  truth  w4iich  history  has 
long  labored  to  indicate.  The  land  upon  which  the 
sun  of  civilization  first  rose,  we  know  not  with  cer- 
tainty ;  but  as  far  back  as  our  vision  can  extend,  we 
behold  it  shining  upon  the  most  eastern  limits  of  the 
eastern  hemisphere.  Assyria,  Egypt,  Greece,  Rome, 
we  behold  successively  lighted  up,  as  the  majestic  orb 
rolls  over  them  ;  and  as  he  advances  still  farther 
through  his  storied  and  mysterious  zodiac,  we  behold 
the  shadows  of  evening  as  surely  stealing  upon  the 
lands  which  he  leaves  behind  him.  Rome  falls  before 
the  adventurous  and  destructive  Goth  ;  and  for  a  mo- 
ment the  world  seems  darkened  ;  but  vast  causes,  new 
materials,  conflicting  elements,  are  silently  at  work  to 
produce  order  out  of  apparent  chaos,  through  the  long 
eclipse  of  the   dark   ages ;   and  when  light  is  again 


214  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

restored,  behold  the  radiance  which  we  first  worship- 
ped on  the  shores  of  the  Indian  ocean,  has  at  last 
reached  and  illumined  the  whole  coast  of  the  Atlan- 
tic, while  the  westernmost  states  of  Europe  are 
rejoicing  in  its  beams.  Here  it  would  seem  the  sun's 
course  was  finished.  The  law  which  has  hitherto 
visibly  governed  his  career,  must  be  reversed ;  the 
world's  western  limit  has  been  reached,  and  either  his 
setting  is  at  hand,  or  he  must  roll  backward  through 
his  orbit.  But  it  is  not  so.  Just  as  we  were  about 
to  doubt  the  universality  of  the  law,  which  we  be- 
heved  indubitably  and  historically  established,  the 
world  swings  open  upon  its  hinges,  and  reveals  an- 
other world  beyond  the  ocean,  as  vast  and  perfect  as 
itself.  America  starts  into  existence,  the  long  for- 
gotten dream  of  the  ancients  is  revived  and  realized, 
and  the  world's  history  Is  rounded  into  as  complete  a 
circle  as  its  physical  conformation. 

We  have  said  that  the  exemplification  of  the  west- 
ward march  of  culture  was  the  most  striking  feature 
in  the  history  of  America.  Connected  with  this, 
however,  and  hardly  of  less  importance,  is  the  illus- 
tration which  it  affords  us  of  the  manner  in  which  the 
civilization  of  the  world  has  been  successively  entrusted 
to  distinct  races.  Throwing  out  at  once  all  disquisi- 
tion concerning  the  great  races  which  have  regularly 
made  their  appearance  and  accomplished  their  mission 
in  past  ages,  we  turn  our  attention  simply  to  the  great 
race  of  the  present  time.  This  is,  indubitably,  the 
Anglo-Saxon  race.     We   assume  this  without  argu- 


CIVILIZATIOx\.  215 

ment,  because  we  believe  that  none  of  our  readers 
will  be  desirous  of  holding  us  to  the  proof. 

The  Anglo-Saxon — like  all  great  races — is  of  a 
composite  origin  ;  and  its  materials  would  almost 
seem  to  have  been  carefully  selected  with  the  view  of 
producing  a  breed  of  singular  energy,  endurance  and 
power.  The  Saxon  hardihood,  the  Norman  fire,  the 
Teutonic  phlegm,  had  long  ago  been  moulded,  one 
w^ould  deem,  for  some  great  purpose.  Into  one  grand 
national  stock  ;  and  to  this  race,  when  it  had  attained 
the  fulness  and  perfection  of  its  strength,  was  the 
conquest  of  America  entrusted. 

The  original  colonization  of  this  country  by  the 
English,  and  the  present  system  of  internal  coloniza- 
tion successfully  prosecuted  within  the  United  States 
from  east  to  west,  form  a  striking  counterpart  to  the 
Gothic  invasion  of  the  Roman  Empire,  in  the  fifth 
century.  The  one  was  the  irruption  of  barbarism 
upon  an  ancient  civilization ;  the  other,  the  triumph 
of  civilization  over  an  ancient  barbarism.  Each  was, 
in  a  great  degree,  the  work  of  the  same  race,  and  it 
would  truly  seem  that  the  barbarian  has  begun  to  pay 
the  debt  which  he  has  owed  to  humanity  since  the 
destruction  of  the  Western  Empire.  The  civilized 
Goths,  whose  mission  is  now  to  contend  with  and 
humanize  the  wilderness  of  America,  are  the  descend- 
ants of  those  Goths  who  for  a  time  annihilated  the 
ancient  civilization  of  Europe;  and  the  task  of  destruc- 
tion which  they  so  successfully  accomplished,  and 
which  resulted,  after  all,  in  a  great  benefit  to  the 


216  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

human  race,  differed  no  less  in  its  general  nature  from 
their  present  occupation,  than  did  the  instruments,  by 
which  it  was  effected,  differ  from  those  by  which  the 
conquest  of  America  is  in  the  course  of  accomplish- 
ment. 

The  Roman  state  retained,  in  appearance,  the  same 
gigantic  proportions  which  belonged  to  it,  when  it  sat 
enthroned  upon  the  whole  civilized  world.  It  was  a 
vast  but  a  hollow  shell ;  outwardly  imposing,  but 
inwardly  rotten  to  the  core,  and  with  the  first  stroke 
of  the  sword  of  Alaric,  it  crumbled  into  dust.  The 
Goth  was  but  the  embodiment  of  the  doom  which  had 
long  impended  over  the  empire  of  the  Csesars.  He 
was  but  the  appointed  actor  in  the  last  scene  of  that 
historic  destiny  which  had  ruled  the  state  since 
Romulus  first  watched  the  vulture's  flight  from  the 
Palatine. 

For  purposes,  inscrutable  then  probably,  but  plain 
enough  to  every  human  intelligence  at  the  present 
day,  the  civilization  of  Europe,  after  having  reached 
and  passed  the  highest  possible  point  of  refinement, 
was  for  the  time  annihilated.  The  Goth  destroyed, 
but  he  did  not  rebuild.  Beneath  the  foot  print  of 
the  barbarian's  war-horse,  the  grass  withered  and 
never  revived.  It  was  but  a  type  of  the  utter  ex- 
haustion of  the  soil ;  and  after  the  tempest  had  lain 
waste  every  vestige  of  the  extraordinary  culture  which 
had,  as  it  were,  drained  and  impoverished  the  land, 
it  lay  fallow  for  ages  before  it  was  again  susceptible 
of  cultivation. 


CIVILIZATION.  217 

The  colonization  of  America  was  exactly  the  re- 
verse of  the  picture.  The  race  that  had  destroyed 
now  came  forward  to  civilize  and  humanize.  The 
Goth  of  the  fifth  century,  whose  courser's  hoof  crushed 
every  flower  in  his  track,  reappears  in  the  seventeenth 
with  his  hand  upon  the  ploughshare,  and  cities  spring 
up  like  corn-blades  in  every  furrow  which  he  traces 
through  the  wilderness.  His  task  is  but  just  begun. 
He  has  but  entered  upon  his  sublimer  mission ;  and  it 
is  to  be  expected  that  as  many  centuries  as  elapsed 
before  the  old  world  was  ripened  for  his  destroying 
scythe,  are  again  to  be  told  before  he  is  to  enjoy  the 
perfected  fruits  of  his  present  labors. 

19 


A  FABLE. 


By  Frances  S.  Osgood. 


Said  a  shower  to  the  sunshine,  as  they  met  upon  the 

breast 
Of  a  silver-winged  cloud  that  was  sailing  to  the  west, 
''  Back,    brazen-faced   intruder  !    retain    your    proper 

sphere  ; 
What  hath  the  haughty  smile  of  Heaven  to  do  with 

Nature's  tear  ?" 

She  weeps  !    Fond  Nature  weeps  to  see  her  blooming 

children  lie, 
Half  withered  'neath  the  beams  of  fire  that  dazzle  from 

your  eye. 
The  blushing  petals  of  the  rose — the  vestal  lily-bell, 
Have  felt  your  baleful  influence,  and  shrink  beneath 

your  spell. 

From  them,  and  from  the  myriad  blooms  that  spring 

'neath  summer  skies, 
I  heard  within  my  cool,  soft  home,  a  chorus  sweet  arise — 
A  chorus  of  faint  voices,  as  if  the  flower-sylphs  lay. 
Sighing  their  last,  warm,   balmy  breath,   in  that  low 

prayer  away. 


A  FABLE.  219 

They   sang — "  Oh  !    sportive   cloudlet  !    that   floatest 

gaily  by, 
Like  a  white  dove,  with  breast  of  down,  and  wings  of 

silver  dye, 
Unfurl  those  gleaming  pinions  swift,  and  shake  from 

every  plume 
Its  liquid  wealth,  to  cool  our  brows  and  wake  our  rich 

perfume  !" 

''  The  cloud  has  heard,  and  sent  me  forth  to  do  my 
mission  sweet ; 

Back  to  your  radiant  throne  of  light,  nor  stay  my  flash- 
ing feet ! " 

"  Nay,  shower,"  said  the  sunshine,  with  a  witching 
smile  of  love, 

"  Do  not  quarrel  with  the  play-fellow  that 's  sent  you 
from  above  ! 

"  See  !  I  have  wTeathed  your  dwelling  with  a  chain  of 

glowing  gold. 
And  shed  a  gleam  of  glory  into  every  snowy  fold. 
An  angel  bade  me  hasten  here,  your  cloud-bark  to  illume. 
And  seek,  with  you,  the  blossoms  that  are  withering  in 

their  bloom. 

"  Let  us  go  to  earth  together  !    I  will  not  harm  the 

flowers ; 
I  will  but  smile  upon  them,  while  you  plash  amid  their 

bowers. 
They'll  tremble  at  your  chilly  touch,  and  droop  the 

blooming  brow, 
If  the  sunshine  do  not  warm  them  with  its  light  and 

loving  glow." 


220 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


Then  the  shower  kissed  the  sunshine,  and  in  beautiful 
embrace 

They  lighted  where  the  lily-bell  looked  down  in  virgin 
grace, 

And  lo !  beneath  that  pure  caress,  as  softly  they  de- 
scended, 

A  vision  hung  'twixt  heaven  and  earth — a  rainbow  pure 
and  splendid, 

As  if  the  rose  and  violet — the  tulip  and  blue-bell. 

Had  lent  their  loveliest  hues  to  air,  where  bright  the 
vision  fell. 

O  thou  who  mournest  hopes  decayed,  like  blossoms  in 

their  bloom, 
Scorn  not  the  heavenly  comforter,  that  comes  to  cheer 

thy  gloom. 
Let  earthly  Sorrow  blend  her  tears  with  pure  Religion's 

smile. 
So  shall   a  glorious  rainbow  dawn  upon  thy  path  the 

while. 

Faith's  soft,  celestial  blue  shall  smile  by  Hope's  unfad- 
ing rose. 

While  Peace,  in  sunny,  golden  light,  beside  them  shall 
repose. 

They  shall  wreathe  thy  way  with  beauty,  and  when 
earthly  ties  are  riven, 

Thy  soul  shall  make  that  brilliant  bridge  its  pathway 
into  heaven. 


SELF-CULTURE. 


By  William  E.  Channing. 


Self-cltlture  is  Practical,  or  it  proposes  as  one  of 
its  chief  ends  to  fit  us  for  action,  to  make  us  efficient 
in  whatever  we  undertake,  to  train  us  to  firmness  of 
purpose  and  to  fruitfulness  of  resource  in  common 
life,  and  especially  in  emergencies,  in  times  of  diffi- 
culty, danger  and  trial.  But  passing  over  this  and 
other  topics  for  which  I  have  no  time,  I  shall  confine 
myself  to  two  branches  of  self-culture  which  have 
been  almost  w^iolly  overlooked  in  the  education  of 
the  people,  and  which  ought  not  to  be  so  slighted. 

In  looking  at  our  nature,  we  discover,  among  its 
admirable  endowments,  the  sense  or  perception  of 
Beauty.  We  see  the  germ  of  this  in  every  human 
being,  and  there  is  no  power  which  admits  greater 
cultivation  ;  and  why  should  it  not  be  cherished  in 
all  ?  It  deserves  remark,  that  the  provision  for  this 
principle  is  infinite  in  the  universe.  There  is  but  a 
very  minute  portion  of  the  creation  which  we  can 
turn  into  food  and  clothes,  or  gratification  for  the 
body  ;  but  the  whole  creation  may  be  used  to  minister 
to  the  sense  of  beauty.  Beauty  is  an  all-pervading 
19* 


222  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

presence.  It  unfolds  In  the  numberless  flowers  of  the 
spring.  It  waves  in  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  the 
green  blades  of  grass.  It  haunts  the  depths  of  the 
earth  and  sea,  and  gleams  out  in  the  hues  of  the  shell 
and  the  precious  stone.  And  not  only  these  minute 
objects,  but  the  ocean,  the  mountains,  the  clouds,  the 
heavens,  the  stars,  the  rising  and  setting  sun,  all  over- 
flow with  beauty.  The  universe  is  its  temple  ;  and 
those  men  who  are  alive  to  it  cannot  lift  their  eyes 
without  feeling  themselves  encompassed  with  it  on 
every  side.  Now  this  beauty  is  so  precious,  the  en- 
joyments it  gives  are  so  refined  and  pure,  so  congenial 
with  our  tenderest  and  noble  feelings,  and  so  akin  to 
worship,  that  it  is  painful  to  think  of  the  multitude 
of  men  as  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  living  almost 
as  blind  to  it,  as  if,  instead  of  this  fair  earth  and 
glorious  sky,  they  were  tenants  of  a  dungeon.  An 
infinite  joy  is  lost  to  the  world  by  the  want  of  culture 
of  this  spiritual  endowment.  Suppose  that  I  were  to 
visit  a  cottage,  and  to  see  its  walls  lined  with  the 
choicest  pictures  of  Raphael,  and  every  spare  nook 
filled  with  statues  of  the  most  exquisite  workmanship, 
and  that  I  were  to  learn,  that  neither  man,  woman  nor 
child  ever  cast  an  eye  at  these  miracles  of  art,  how 
should  I  feel  their  privation  ;  how  should  I  want  to 
open  their  eyes,  and  to  help  them  to  comprehend  and 
feel  the  loveliness  and  grandeur  which  in  vain  courted 
their  notice.  But  every  husbandman  is  living  in  sight 
of  the  works  of  a  diviner  artist ;  and  how  much 
would  his  existence   be   elevated,  could  he  see  the 


SELF-CULTURE.  223 

glory  which  shines  forth  in  their  forms,  hues,  propor- 
tions and  moral  expression  1  I  have  spoken  only  of 
the  beauty  of  nature,  but  how  much  of  this  mysterious 
charm  is  found  in  the  elegant  arts,  and  especially  in 
literature  ?  The  best  books  have  most  beauty.  The 
greatest  truths  are  wronged  if  not  linked  with  beauty, 
and  they  win  their  way  most  surely  and  deeply  into 
the  soul  when  arrayed  in  this  their  natural  and  fit 
attire.  Now  no  man  receives  the  true  culture  of  a 
man,  in  whom  the  sensibility  to  the  beautiful  is  not 
cherished  ;  and  I  know  of  no  condition  in  life  from 
which  it  should  be  excluded.  Of  all  luxuries  this  is 
the  cheapest  and  most  at  hand  ;  and  it  seems  to  me 
to  be  most  important  to  those  conditions,  where  coarse 
labor  tends  to  give  a  grossness  to  the  mind.  From 
the  diffusion  of  the  sense  of  beauty  in  ancient  Greece, 
and  of  the  taste  for  music  in  modern  Germany,  we 
learn  that  the  people  at  large,  may  partake  of  refined 
gratifications  which  have  hitherto  been  thought  to  be 
necessarily  restricted  to  a  few. 

What  beauty  is,  is  a  question  which  the  most  pene- 
trating minds  have  not  satisfactorily  answered  ;  nor, 
were  I  able,  is  this  the  place  for  discussing  it.  But 
one  thing  I  would  say  ;  the  beauty  of  the  outward 
creation  is  intimately  related  to  the  lovely,  grand, 
interesting  attributes  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  emblem  or 
expression  of  these.  Matter  becomes  beautiful  to  us, 
when  it  seems  to  lose  its  material  aspect,  its  inertness, 
finiteness  and  grossness,  and  by  the  ethereal  lightness 
of  its  forms  and  motions  seems  to  approach   spirit ; 


224  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

when  it  images  to  us  pure  and  gentle  affections ; 
when  it  spreads  out  into  a  vastness  which  is  a  shadow 
of  the  Infinite  ;  or  when  in  more  awful  shapes  and 
movements  it  speaks  of  the  Omnipotent.  Thus  out- 
ward beauty  is  akin  to  something  deeper  and  unseen, 
is  the  reflection  of  spiritual  attributes  ;  and  of  conse- 
quence the  way  to  see  and  feel  it  more  and  more 
keenly  is  to  cultivate  those  moral,  religious,  intel- 
lectual and  social  principles  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken,  and  which  are  the  glory  of  the  spiritual 
nature  ;  and  I  name  this,  that  you  may  see,  what  I 
am  anxious  to  show,  the  harmony  which  subsists 
among  all  branches  of  human  culture,  or  how  each 
forwards  and  is  aided  by  all. 

There  is  another  power,  which  each  man  should 
cultivate  according  to  his  ability,  but  which  is  very 
much  neglected  in  the  mass  of  the  people,  and  that  is 
the  power  of  Utterance.  A  man  was  not  made  to 
shut  up  his  mind  in  itself;  but  to  give  it  voice  and  to 
exchange  it  for  other  minds.  Speech  is  one  of  our 
grand  distinctions  from  the  brute.  Our  power  over 
others  lies  not  so  much  in  the  amount  of  thought 
within  us,  as  in  the  power  of  bringing  it  out.  A  man 
of  more  than  ordinary  intellectual  vigor,  may,  for  want 
of  expression,  be  a  cypher,  without  significance,  in 
society.  And  not  only  does  a  man  influence  others, 
but  he  greatly  aids  his  own  intellect,  by  giving  distinct 
and  forcible  utterance  to  his  thoughts.  We  understand 
ourselves  better,  our  conceptions  grow  clearer,  by  the 
very  effort  to  make  them  clear  to  another.     Our  social 


SELF-CULTURE.  225 

rank  too  depends  a  good  deal  on  our  power  of  utter- 
ance. The  principal  distinction  between  what  are 
called  crentlemen  and  the  vujo-ar  lies  in  this,  that  the 
latter  are  awkward  in  manners,  and  are  essentially 
wanting  in  propriety,  clearness,  grace,  and  force  of 
utterance.  A  man  who  cannot  open  his  lips  without 
breaking  a  rule  of  grammar,  without  showing  in  his 
dialect  or  brogue  or  uncouth  tones  his  want  of  cultiva- 
tion, or  without  darkening  his  meaning  by  a  confused, 
unskilful  mode  of  communication,  cannot  take  the 
place  to  which  perhaps  his  native  good  sense  entitles 
him.  To  have  intercourse  with  respectable  people, 
we  must  speak  their  language.  On  this  account,  I 
am  glad  that  grammar  and  a  correct  pronunciation 
are  taught  in  the  common  schools  of  this  city.  These 
are  not  trifles ;  nor  are  they  superfluous  to  any  class 
of  people.  They  give  a  man  access  to  social  advan- 
tages, on  which  his  improvement  very  much  depends. 
The  power  of  utterance  should  be  included  by  all  in 
their  plans  of  self-culture. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER. 


By  Andrews  Norton. 

The  rain  is  o'er — how  dense  and  bright 
Yon  pearly  clouds  reposing  lie  ! 

Cloud  above  cloud,  a  glorious  sight, 
Contrasting  with  the  dark  blue  sky  I 

In  grateful  silence  earth  receives 

The  general  blessing ;  fresh  and  fair. 

Each  flower  expands  its  little  leaves, 
As  glad  the  common  joy  to  share. 

The  softened  sunbeams  pour  around 
A  fairy  light,  uncertain,  pale  ; 

The  wind  blows  cool ;  the  scented  ground 
Is  breathing  odors  on  the  gale. 

Mid  yon  rich  cloud's  voluptuous  pile, 
Methinks  some  spirit  of  the  air 

Might  rest  to  gaze  below  a  while, 
Then  turn  and  bathe  and  revel  there. 

The  sun  breaks  forth — from  off  the  scene 
Its  floating  veil  of  mist  is  flung ; 

And  all  the  wilderness  of  green 

With  trembling  drops  of  light  is  hung. 


WRITTEN  AFTER  A  SUMMER  SHOWER.         2'2l 

Now  gaze  on  nature — yet  the  same — 
Glowing  with  life,  by  breezes  fanned, 

Luxuriant,  lovely,  as  she  came 

Fresh  in  her  youth  from  God's  own  hand. 

Hear  the  rich  music  of  that  voice, 
Which  sounds  from  all  below,  above  ; 

She  calls  her  children  to  rejoice. 

And  round  them  throws  her  arms  of  love. 

Drink  in  her  influence — low  born  care 

And  all  the  train  of  mean  desire, 
Refuse  to  breathe  this  holy  air. 

And  mid  the  living  light  expire. 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED. 


By  Edward  Everett. 

The  Historical  Romance  or  Novel  has  acquired  a 
celebrity,  which  puts  down  all  cavil  against  the  prin- 
ciples of  that  species  of  composition.  It  is  not  only 
now  admitted  to  be  no  crime  to  mingle  the  creations 
of  the  Fancy  with  the  details  of  History  ;  but  as  the 
great  duke  of  Marlborough  said,  he  owed  his  ac- 
quaintance with  English  history  to  the  plays  of 
Shakspeare  ;  so  we  have  no  doubt  many  persons,  if 
they  would  confess  the  truth,  would  acknowledge  a 
like  obligation  to  the  romances  of  Scott.  We  appeal 
to  our  fair  readers,  whether  they  have  not  learned  as 
much  of  Roman  antiquities  from  Corinna  as  from 
Nardini,  or  Vasi ;  and  if  they  were  questioned  on  the 
partition  of  Poland,  whether  they  should  cite  Dohm's 
Denkwiirdlgkeiten  or  Thaddeus  of  Warsaw. 

We  see  no  reason  why  the  historical  Tale  should 
not  be  in  as  good  repute  as  the  historical  Novel.  A 
single  incident  may  often,  in  proportion,  bear  an  illus- 
tration, as  well  as  a  revolution  or  a  war ;  and  when 
thus  brought  to  the  general  notice,  leave  a  valuable 
lesson  on  the  mind.     So  necessary,  in  truth,  is  it,  to 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  229 

set  off  the  dry  matter  of  fact,  by  the  additions  of  the 
fancy,  that,  perhaps,  such  a  thing  as  a  story-teller, 
who  adhered  throughout  his  narrative  to  the  literal 
truth,  was  never  heard  of.  Like  actors  on  the  stage, 
who  require  rouge  to  prevent  their  looking  unduly 
pale  and  ghastly — a  story  is  thought  tame,  which  is 
not  set  off  with  some  ornament  beyond  the  dry 
record  of  the  occurrence.  In  fact,  in  the  language  of 
the  nursery,  (which  is  not  seldom  truer  to  nature  than 
that  of  advanced  life,)  a  story  and  a  fib  are  synony- 
mous terms. 

We  make  these  remarks  by  way  of  introduction  to 
a  narrative,  which  is  well  known  to  be  substantially 
true.  We  have  been  compelled  to  add  a  few  circum- 
stances, not  wilfully,  and  with  malice  prepense,  to 
depart  from  historical  accuracy,  but  to  fill  up  the  out- 
line of  the  fact,  which  is  all  that  has  descended  to  us. 
In  Peale's  great  skeleton  of  the  Mammoth,  the  top 
of  the  cranium  is  wood,  and  some  of  the  ribs  are  of 
leather.  And  why  ?  To  deceive  the  public  ?  to 
palm  off  pine  and  cowhide  for  genuine  fossil  bones  ? 
By  no  means  ;  but  because,  as  the  animal  must  have 
had  some  top  to  his  head,  and  the  ordinary  comple- 
ment of  ribs,  and  as  these  parts  of  his  anatomy  could 
not  be  recovered,  it  was  necessary  to  supply  them,  by 
the  best  substitutes,  in  order  to  exhibit,  in  their  natural 
place  and  to  good  advantage,  those  parts  actually 
preserved.  So  with  our  tale.  We  believe  we  may 
venture  to  pledge  ourselves,  that  the  main  part  of  it  is 
true  ;  and  as  to  the  rest,  we  can  only  say  that  it 
20 


230  THE   BOSTON  BOOK. 

rnigbt  have  been  true  ;  that  something  took  place  at 
the  same  time  and  place,  which  probably  was  much 
of  the  same  kind  ;  and  if  it  interests  the  reader  and  is 
not  against  good  morals,  it  is  no  great  matter,  in  the 
present  case,  whether  it  is  true  or  not. 

Brook  Watson  was  born  of  humble  parentage,  in 
the  province  of  Maine,  and  in  that  part  of  it  more 
appropriately  known  as  Sagadahoc.  History  has  not 
conveyed  to  us  the  incidents  of  his  childhood.  As  he 
met  with  extraordinary  success  in  life,  we  presume  he 
was  pretty  soundly  drubbed  by  the  school-master  and 
the  older  boys.  He  probably  ran  about  bare-footed 
in  summer,  and  in  winter,  wore  old  woollen  stockings, 
with   the  feet  cut  off.  under  the  name  of  leo^dns,  to 

^  CO  y 

keep  out  snow-water.  We  imagine  he  got  on  the 
rafts  of  the  lumber-men,  and  learned  to  swim  by  being 
knocked  off,  as  a  mischief-maker,  into  the  river.  We 
think  it  likely  he  occasionally  set  up,  of  a  moonshiny 
night,  to  watch  the  bears,  as  they  came  down  to  re- 
connoitre the  pig-stye  ;  and  w-e  have  little  doubt  that, 
before  he  was  eleven  years  old,  he  had  gone  cabin- 
boy  to  Jamaica,  with  a  cargo  of  pine  boards  and 
timber.  But  of  all  this  we  know  nothing.  It  is 
enough  for  our  story,  that,  at  the  age  of  twenty,  Brook 
Watson  was  a  stout,  athletic  young  man,  sailing  out 
of  the  port  of  New  York  to  the  West  Indies. 

The  yankees  knew  the  way  to  the  West  Indies  a 
good  while  ago;  they  knew  more  ways  than  one. 
Their  coasting  vessels  knew  the  way  without  quadrant 
or  Practical   Navigator.      Their  skippers  kept  their 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  231 

reckoning  with  chalk  on  a  shingle,  which  they  stowed 
away  in  the  hinnacle  ;  and,  by  way  of  observation, 
they  held  up  a  hand  to  the  sun.  When  they  got  him 
over  four  fingers,  they  knew  they  were  straight  for  the 
Hole-in-the-wall ;  three  fingers  gave  them  their  course 
to  the  Double-headed-shot  Keys,  and  two  carried 
them  down  to  Barbadoes.  This  was  one  way  ;  and 
when  the  Monsieurs  and  the  Dons  at  Martinico  and 
the  Havana  heard  the  old  New  England  drums 
thumping  away  under  the  very  teeth  of  their  bat- 
teries, they  understood  to  their  cost,  that  the  yankees 
had  another  way  of  working  their  passage.  But 
Brook  Watson  went  to  the  Havana  in  the  way  of 
trade.  He  went  as  second  mate  of  the  Royal  Con- 
sort, a  fine  top-sail  schooner  of  one  hundred  and  fifteen 
tons  ;  and  whether  he  had  any  personal  venture  in 
the  mules,  butter,  cheese,  codfish  and  shocks,  which 
she  took  out,  is  more  than  history  has  recorded. 

Captain  Basil  Hall  says  the  Americans  are  too  apt 
to  talk  about  the  w^eather.  But  in  the  tropics,  in  the 
month  of  July,  aboard  a  small  ship,  without  a  breath 
stirring.  Captain,  It  is  hot ; — you  have  been  a  sailor 
yourself,  and  you  ought  to  know  it.  It  was  very  hot 
on  board  the  Royal  Consort,  about  four  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  of  the  14th  of  July,  1755.  There  was  not 
the  slightest  movement  in  the  air;  the  rays  of  the  sun 
seemed  to  burn  down  into  the  water.  Silence  took 
hold  of  the  animated  creation.  It  was  too  hot  to  talk, 
whistle  or  sing ;  to  bark,  to  crow  or  to  bray.  Every 
thing  crept  under  cover,  but  Sambo  and  Cufiee,  two 


232 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


fine  looking  blacks,  who  sat  sunning  themselves  on  the 
quay,  and  thought  "  him  berry  pleasant  weather," 
and  glistened  like  a  new  Bristol  bottle. 

Brook  Watson  was  fond  of  the  water ;  he  was  not 
web-footed,  nor  was  he  branchioustegous,  (there 's  for 
you,  see  Noah  Webster ;)  but  were  he  asked  whether 
he  felt  most  at  home  on  land  or  in  the  water,  he 
would  have  found  it  hard  to  tell.  He  had  probably 
swum  the  Kennebeck,  where  it  is  as  wide  and  deep  as 
the  Hellespont  between  Sestos  and  Abydos,  at  least 
once  a  day,  for  five  months  in  the  year,  ever  since  he 
was  eleven  years  old,  without  Lord  Byron's  precaution 
of  a  boat  in  company,  to  pick  him  up  in  case  of  need. 
As  his  Lordship  seemed  desirous  of  imitating  Leander, 
honesty  ought,  we  think,  to  have  suggested  to  him  to 
go  without  the  boat.  At  all  events,  that  was  Brook 
Watson's  way  ;  and  we  have  no  doubt,  had  he  been 
in  a  boat,  with  a  head  wind,  he  would  bave  sprung 
into  the  river,  in  order  to  get  across  the  sooner.  With 
this  taste  for  the  water,  and  with  the  weather  so 
oppressive  as  we  have  described  it  on  the  present 
occasion,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  Brook 
Watson  should  have  turned  his  thoughts  for  refresh- 
ment to  a  change  of  element ;  in  other  w^ords,  that  he 
should  have  resolved  to  bathe  himself  in  the  sea. 

Such  was  the  fact.  About  six  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon, and  when  every  other  being  on  board  the  vessel 
had  crept  away  into  the  cabin  or  the  forecastle,  to 
enjoy  a  siesta,  Brook,  who  had  been  sweltering,  and 
panting,  and  thinking  of  the  banks  of  the  Kennebeck, 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  333 

till  his  stout  gay  heart  felt  like  a  great  ball  of  lead 
within  him,  tripped  up  on  deck,  dropped  his  loose 
clothing,  and  in  an  instant  was  over  the  side  of  the 
vessel.  This  was  Brook's  first  voyage  to  the  West 
Indies  since  he  had  grown  up  ;  and  the  first  day  after 
his  arrival.  He  was  one  of  that  class  of  mankind  not 
bred  up  to  books ;  and  consequently  in  the  way  of 
learning  wisdom  only  by  experience.  What  you 
learn  by  experience,  you  learn  pretty  thoroughly,  but, 
at  the  same  time,  occasionally  much  to  your  cost. 
Thus  by  chopping  off  a  couple  of  fingers  with  a  broad 
axe,  you  learn,  by  experience,  not  to  play  with  edge- 
tools.  Brook  Watson's  experience  in  bathing  had 
hitherto  been  confined  to  the  Kennebeck — a  noble, 
broad,  civil  stream,  harboring  nothing  witliin  its  gentle 
waters  more  terrible  than  a  porpoise.  The  sea-serpent 
had  not  yet  appeared.  Brook  Watson  had  certainly 
heard  of  sharks,  but  at  the  moment  of  forming  the 
resolution  to  bathe,  it  had  entirely  escaped  his  mind, 
if  it  had  ever  entered  it,  that  the  West  India  seas  were 
full  of  them  ;  and  so  over  he  went,  with  a  fearless 
plunge. 

Sambo  and  Cuffee,  as  we  have  said,  were  sitting  on 
the  quay,  enjoying  the  pleasant  sunshine,  and  making 
their  evening  repast  of  banana,  when  they  heard  the 
plunge  into  the  water  by  the  side  of  the  Royal  Con- 
sort, and  presently  saw  Brook  Watson  emerging  from 
the  deep,  his  hands  to  his  eyes,  to  free  them  from  the 
brine,  balancing  up  and  down,  sputtering  the  water 
from  his  mouth,  and  then  throwing  himself  forward, 
20* 


234  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

hand  over  band,  as  if  at  length  he  really  felt  himself 
in  his  element. 

"Ohj  Massa  Bacra,"  roared  out  Sambo,  as  soon  as 
he  could  recover  his  astonishment  enough  to  speak  ; 
"  O  Senor ;  he  white  man  neber  go  to  swim  ;  O,  de 
liburon  ;  he  berry  bad  bite,  come  llamar — de  shark  ; 
lie  hab  berry  big  mouth  ;  he  eatee  a  Senor  all  up 
down!" 

Such  was  the  exclamation  of  Sambo,  in  the  best 
English  he  had  been  able  to  pick  up,  in  a  few  years' 
service,  in  unlading  the  American  vessels  that  came  to 
the  Havana.  It  was  intended  to  apprise  the  bold  but 
inexperienced  stranger,  that  the  waters  were  filled  with 
sharks,  and  that  it  was  dangerous  to  swim  in  them. 
The  words  were  scarcely  uttered,  and,  even  if  they 
were  heard,  had  not  time  to  produce  their  effect,  when 
Cuffee  responded  to  the  exclamation  of  his  sable  col- 
league, with — 

"  O,  Madre  de  Dios,  see,  see,  de  tiburon,  de  shark ; 
ah  San  Salvador  ;  ah  pobre  joven  !  matar,  todo  comer, 
he  eat  him  all  down,  berry  soon  !" 

The  second  cry  had  been  drawn  from  the  kind 
hearted  negro,  by  seeing,  at  a  distance,  in  the  water,  a 
smooth  shooting  streak,  which  an  inexperienced  eye 
would  not  have  noticed,  but  w^iich  Sambo  and  CufFee 
knew  full  well.  It  was  the  wake  of  a  shark.  At  a 
distance  of  a  mile  or  two,  the  shark  had  perceived  his 
prey  ;  and  with  the  rapidity  of  sound  he  had  shot 
across  the  intervening  space,  scarcely  disturbing  the 
surface  with  a  ripple.     Cuffee's  practised  eye  alone 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  335 

had  seen  a  flash  of  his  lail  at  the  distance  of  a  mile 
and  a  half;  and  raising  his  voice  to  the  utmost  of  his 
strength,  he  had  endeavored  to  apprise  the  incautious 
swimmer  of  his  danger.  Brook  heard  the  shout,  and 
turned  his  eye  in  the  direction  in  which  the  negro 
pointed  ;  and  well  skilled  in  all  the  appearances  of 
the  water,  under  which  he  could  see  almost  as  well  as 
in  the  open  air,  he  perceived  the  sharp  forehead  of  the 
fearful  animal  rushing  towards  him,  head  on,  with  a 
rapidity  which  bade  defiance  to  flight.  Had  he  been 
armed  with  a  knife,  or  even  a  stick,  he  would  not 
have  feared  the  encounter ;  but  would  have  coolly 
waited  his  chance,  like  the  negroes  of  the  West  In- 
dies and  the  Spanish  Main,  and  plunged  his  weapon 
into  the  opening  maw  of  the  ravenous  animal.  But 
he  was  wholly  naked  and  defenceless.  Every  one  on 
board  the  Royal  Consort  was  asleep  ;  and  it  was  in 
vain  to  look  for  aid  from  that  quarter.  He  cast  a 
glance,  in  his  extremity,  to  Sambo  and  CufFee,  and 
saw  them,  with  prompt  benevolence,  throw  themselves 
into  a  boat  to  rescue  him  ;  but  meantime  the  hungry 
enemy  was  rushing  on. 

Brook  thought  of  the  Kennebeck  ;  he  thought  of 
its  green  banks  and  its  pleasant  islands.  He  thought 
of  the  tall  trunks  of  the  pine  trees,  scathed  with  fire, 
which  stood  the  grim  sentinels  of  the  forest,  over  the 
roof  where  he  was  born.  He  thought  of  the  log 
school-house.  He  thought  of  his  little  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  of  his  mother;  and  there  was  another 
image  that  passed  through  his  mind,  and  almost  melted 


236 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


into  cowardice  his  manly  throbbing  heart.  He  thought 
of  Mary  Atwood,  and — but  he  had  to  think  of  him- 
self. For  though  these  tumultuous  emotions  and  a 
thousand  others  rushed  through  his  mind  in  a  mo- 
ment, crowding  that  one  moment  with  a  long  duration 
of  suffering ;  yet  in  the  same  fleet  moment,  the 
dreadful  monster  had  shot  across  the  entire  space  that 
separated  him  from  Brook  ;  and  had  stopped,  as  if  its 
vitality  had  been  instantly  arrested,  at  the  distance  of 
about  twelve  feet  from  our  swimmer.  Brook  had 
drawn  himself  up  in  the  most  pugnacious  attitude 
possible  ;  and  was  treading  water  with  great  activity. 
The  shark,  probably  unused  to  any  signs  of  making 
battle,  remained,  for  one  moment,  quiet ;  and  then, 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  shot  sideling  oft,  and  came 
round  in  the  rear.  Brook,  however,  was  as  wide 
awake  as  his  enemy.  If  he  had  not  dealt  with 
sharks  before,  he  knew  something  of  the  ways  af 
bears  and  catamounts  :  and  contriving-  himself  to  £;et 
round,  about  as  soon  as  the  shark,  he  still  presented  a 
bold  front  to  the  foe. 

But  a  human  creature,  after  all,  is  out  of  his  ele» 
ment  in  the  water ;  and  he  fights  with  a  shark,  to 
about  the  same  disadvantage  as  the  shark  himself, 
when  dragged  up  on  deck,  fights  with  a  man.  He 
flounces  and  flings  round,  and  makes  formidable  battle 
with  tail  and  maw ;  but  he  is  soon  obliged  to  yield. 
The  near  approach  to  a  fine  plump  healthy  yankee 
was  too  much  for  the  impatience  of  our  shark.  The 
plashing  of  the  oars  of  Sambo  and  Cuffee,  warned 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  237 

the  sagacious  monster  of  gathering  foes.  Whirling 
himself  over  on  his  back,  and  turning  up  his  long 
white  belly,  and  opening  his  terrific  jaws,  set  round 
with  a  double  row  of  broad  serrated  teeth,  the  whole 
roof  of  his  mouth  paved  with  horrent  fangs,  all  stand- 
ing erect,  sharp  and  rigid,  just  permitting  the  blood- 
bright  red  to  be  seen  between  their  roots,  he  darted 
toward  Brook.  Brook's  self-possession  stood  by 
him  in  this  trying  moment.  He  knew  very  well  if 
the  animal  reached  him  in  a  vital  part,  that  instant 
deatli  was  his  fate  ;  and  with  a  rapid  movement, 
either  of  instinct  or  calculation,  he  threw  himself 
backward,  kicking  at  the  same  moment,  at  the  shark. 
In  consequence  of  this  movement,  his  foot  and  leg 
passed  into  the  horrid  maw  of  the  dreadful  monster, 
and  were  severed  in  a  moment — muscles,  sinews  and 
bone.  In  the  next  moment,  Sambo  and  CuiFee  were 
at  his  side  ;  and  lifted  him  into  the  boat,  convulsed 
with  pain,  and  fainting  with  loss  of  blood.  The 
Royal  Consort  was  near,  and  the  alarm  was  speedily 
given.  Brook  was  taken  on  board ;  the  vessel's 
company  were  roused  ;  bandages  and  styptics  were 
applied  ;  surgical  advice  was  obtained  from  the  shore, 
and  in  due  season  the  hearty  and  sound-constitutioned 
youth  recovered. 

The  place  of  his  lost  limb  was  supplied  by  a 
wooden  one  ;  and  industry,  temperance,  probity  and 
zeal,  supplied  the  place  of  a  regiment  of  legs,  when 
employed  to  prop  up  a  lazy  and  dissipated  frame. 
The  manlv  virtues  of  our  hero  found  their  reward ; 


038  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

his  sufferings  were  crowned  with  a  rich  indemnity. 
He  rose  from  one  step  to  another  of  prosperity.  In- 
creased means  opened  a  wider  sphere  of  activity  and 
iisefidness.  He  was  extensively  engaged  in  pubHc 
contracts,  which  he  fulfilled  to  the  advantage  of  the 
government,  as  well  as  his  own  ; — a  thing  rare  enough 
among  contracting  bipeds.  From  a  contractor,  he 
became  a  commissary,  and  from  commissary,  Lord 
Mayor  of  London. 

Behold  our  hero  now,  at  the  head  of  the  magis- 
tracy of  the  metropolis  of  the  British  empire,  display- 
ing in  this  exalted  station,  the  virtues  which  had 
raised  him  to  it  from  humble  life  ;  and  combatting  the 
monsters  of  vice  and  corruption,  which  infest  the  me- 
tropolis, as  boldly  as  he  withstood  the  monster  of  the 
deep,  and  with  greater  success.  All  classes  of  his 
majesty's  subjects,  who  had  occasion  to  approach  him, 
enjoyed  the  benefit  of  his  civic  qualities ;  and  his 
fame  spread  far  and  wide  through  Great  Britain. 
Nor  was  it  confined,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  to  the 
British  isles.  The  North  American  colonies  were 
proud  of  their  fellow  citizen,  who,  from  poverty  and 
obscurity,  had  reached  the  Lord  Mayor's  chair. 
The  ambitious  mother  quoted  him  to  her  emulous 
offspring.  The  thrifty  merchant  at  Boston,  would 
send  a  quintal  of  the  best  Isle-of-Shoals,  as  a  present 
to  his  worship  ;  and  once,  on  the  annual  election  day, 
the  reverend  gentleman,  who  oiFiciated  on  the  occa- 
sion, in  commenting  on  the  happy  auspices  of  the 
day,  (it  was  just  after  the  receipt  of  a  large  sum  of 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  O39 

money  from  England,  on  account  of  the  expenses  of 
the  colony  in  the  old  war,)  included  among  them, 
that  a  son  of  New  England  had  been  entrusted  with 
the  high  and  responsible  duties  of  the  Chief  Magis- 
tracy of  the  metropolis  of  his  majesty's  dominions. 

It  may  well  be  supposed,  that  the  Americans,  who 
went  home  (as  it  was  called,  even  in  the  case  of 
those  who  were  born  and  bred  in  the  colonies) 
were  very  fond  of  seeking  the  acquaintance  of  Sir 
Bi'ook  Watson,  for  knighthood  had  followed  in  the 
train  of  his  other  honors.  Greatly  to  the  credit  of 
his  worship,  he  uniformly  received  them  with  kind- 
ness and  cordiality,  and  instead  of  shunning  whatever 
recalled  his  humble  origin,  he  paid  particular  atten- 
tion to  every  one  that  came  from  Sagadahoc.  There 
was  but  a  single  point  in  his  history  and  condition,  on 
which  he  evinced  the  least  sensitiveness,  and  this  was 
the  painful  occurrence  which  had  deprived  him  of 
his  limb.  Regret  at  this  severe  loss  ;  a  vivid  recol- 
lection of  the  agony  which  had  accompanied  it;  and 
probably  no  little  annoyance  at  the  incessant  inter- 
rogatories to  which  it  had  exposed  him  through  life, 
and  the  constant  repetition  to  which  it  had  driven 
him  of  all  the  details  of  this  event,  had  unitedly  made 
it  a  very  sore  subject  with  him.  He  at  length  ceased 
himself  to  allude  to  it,  and  his  friends  perceived,  by 
the  brevity  of  his  answers,  that  it  was  a  topic  on 
which  he  wished  to  be  spared. 

Among  the  Americans  who  obtained  an  introduc- 
tion to  his  worship  in  London,  were  Asahel  Ferret 


240 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


and  Richard  Teasewell,  shrewd  yankees,  who  had 
found  their  way  over  to  England,  with  a  machine  for 
dressing  flax.  They  had  obtained  a  letter  of  reconti- 
mendation  from  a  merchant  in  Boston  to  Sir  Brook. 
They  had  no  reason  to  murmur  at  their  reception. 
They  were  invited  to  dine  with  his  lordship,  and 
treated  with  hearty  hospitality  and  friendship.  The 
dinner  passed  rather  silently  away,  but  with  no  neg- 
lect of  the  main  end  of  the  dinner.  Our  yankee 
visitors  did  full  justice  to  his  worship's  bountiful  fare. 
They  found  his  mutton  fine  ;  his  turbot  fine ;  his 
strong  beer  genuine  (as  they  called  it ;)  and  his  wine 
most  extraordinary  good  ;  and  as  the  bottle  circu- 
lated, the  slight  repression  of  spirits,  under  which 
they  commenced,  passed  off.  They  became  propor- 
tionably  inquisitive,  and  opened  upon  their  country- 
man a  full  battery  of  questions.  They  began  with  the 
articles  that  formed  the  dessert ;  and  asked  whether 
his  lordship's  peaches  were  raised  in  his  lordship's 
own  garden.  When  told  they  were  not,  they  made 
so  bold  as  to  inquire,  whether  they  were  a  present  to 
his  lordship  or  boughten.  The  mayor  having  an- 
swered that  they  came  from  the  market, — ''might 
they  presume  to  ask  how  much  they  had  cost  ? " 
They  were  curious  to  be  informed  whether  the  silver 
gilt  spoons  were  solid  metal  ; — how  many  little  ones 
his  worship  had  ;  what  meeting  he  went  to,  and 
whether  his  lordship  had  ever  heard  Mr.  Whitefield 
preach  ;  and  if  he  did  not  think  him  a  fine  speaker  ! 
they   were   anxious  to  know,  whether  his   lordship 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  04I 

went  to  see  bis  majesty  sociably  now,  as  you  would 
run  in  and  out  at  a  neigbbor's  ;  wbetber  ber  majesty 
was  a  comely  personable  woman,  and  wbetber  it  was 
true,  tbat  tbe  prince  was  left-banded,  and  ibe  princess 
pock-marked.  Tbey  inquired  wbat  bis  lordsbip  was 
wortb  ;  bow  mucb  be  used  to  get,  as  commissary  ; 
bow  mucb  be  got  as  lord  mayor  ;  and  wbetber  ber 
ladysbip  bad  not  sometbing  bandsome  of  ber  own. 
Tbey  were  anxious  to  know,  wbat  bis  worsbip  would 
turn  bis  band  to,  wben  be  bad  done  being  lord  mayor ; 
bow  old  be  was ;  wbetber  be  did  not  mean  to  go 
back  and  live  in  America  ;  and  wbetber  it  was  not 
very  pleasant  to  bis  lordsbip,  to  meet  a  countryman 
from  New  England.  To  all  tbese  questions  and  a 
great  many  more,  equally  searcbing  and  to  tbe  point, 
bis  lordsbip  answered  good  bumoredly  ;  sometimes 
witb  a  direct  reply,  sometimes  evasively,  but  never 
impatiently.  He  perceived,  bowever,  tbat  tbe  appe- 
tite of  tbeir  curiosity  grew,  from  wbat  it  fed  on  ;  and 
tbat  it  would  be  as  wise  in  birn  to  bope  for  respite  on 
tbeir  being  satisfied,  as  it  was  in  tbe  rustic  to  w^ait  for 
tbe  river  to  run  out. 

Tbese  sturdy  questioners  bad  received  a  bint,  tbat 
bis  lordsbip  was  ratber  sensitive  on  tbe  subject  of  bis 
limb,  and  not  fond  of  baving  it  alluded  to.  Tbis,  of 
course,  served  no  otber  purpose,  tban  tbat  of  impart- 
ing to  tbem  an  intense  desire  to  know  every  tbing 
about  it.  Tbey  bad  never  beard  by  wbat  accident 
bis  lordsbip  bad  met  tbis  misfortune  ;  as  indeed  tbe 
delicacy,  wbich  bad  for  years  been  observed  on  tbe 
21 


242  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

subject,  in  the  circle  of  bis  friends,  bad  prevented 
tbe  singular  circumstances,  wbicb  in  early  youtb  de- 
prived bitn  of  bis  leg,  from  being  generally  known. 
It  was  surmised  by  some,  that  be  bad  broken  it  by  a 
fall  on  tbe  ice,  in  crossing  tbe  Kennebeck  in  tbe 
winter.  Otbers  affirmed,  of  tbeir  certain  knowledge, 
tbat  be  was  crusbed  in  a  raft  of  timber  ;  and  a  tbird 
bad  beard  a  brotber-in-law  declare,  tbat  be  stood  by 
him,  wben  it  was  sbot  off,  before  Quebec.  In  fact, 
many  persons,  not  altogetber  as  curious  as  our  visi- 
tants, really  wisbed  tbey  knew  bow  bis  lordsbip  lost 
bis  leg. 

This  prevailing  mystery,  tbe  good  bumor  witb 
wbicb  bis  worsbip  bad  answered  tbeir  otber  questions, 
and  tbe  keen  sting  of  curiosity,  wrougbt  upon  tbe 
visitors,  till  tbey  were  almost  in  a  frenzy.  The 
volubility  witb  wbicb  tbey  put  tbeir  otber  questions, 
arose,  in  part,  from  tbe  flutter  of  desire  to  probe  this 
hidden  matter.  They  looked  at  bis  worship's  wooden 
leg  ;  at  each  otber ;  at  tbe  carpet ;  at  the  ceiling ; 
and  finally,  one  of  them,  by  way  of  a  feeler,  asked 
his  lordsbip  if  he  bad  seen  tbe  new  model  of  a  cork 
leg,  contrived  by  Mr.  Rivetshin  and  highly  com- 
mended in  the  papers.  His  lordship  bad  not  beard 
of  it.  Baffled  in  this,  tbey  asked  bis  lordship 
whether  be  supposed  it  was  very  painful  to  lose  a 
limb,  by  a  cannon  ball  or  a  grape  shot.  His  worsbip 
really  could  not  judge,  be  bad  never  bad  that  misfor- 
tune.    Tbey  then  inquired  whether  casualties  did  not 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  243 

frequently  happen  to  lumberers  on  the  Kennebeck 
river.  The  mayor  replied  that  the  poor  fellows  did 
sometimes  slip  off  a  rolling  log,  and  get  drowned. 
"  Were  there  not  bad  accidents  in  crossing  the  river 
on  the  ice  ?  "  His  lordship  had  heard  of  a  wagon  of 
produce,  that  had  been  blown  down  upon  the  slippery 
surfiice  of  the  ice,  horses  and  all,  as  far  as  Merry 
IMeeiing  Bay,  when  it  was  brought  up  by  a  shot 
from  fort  Charles,  which  struck  the  wagon  between 
perch  and  axle-tree  and  knocked  it  over  ;  but  his 
lordship  pleasantly  added,  he  believed  it  was  an 
exaggeration. 

Finding  no  possibihty  of  getting  the  desired  infor- 
mation by  any  indirect  means,  they  began  to  draw 
their  breath  hard  ;  to  throw  quick  glances  at  each 
other  and  at  his  lordship's  limb ;  and  in  a  few  mo- 
ments one  of  them,  with  a  previous  jerk  of  his  head 
and  compression  of  his  lips,  as  much  as  to  say,  ^'  I 
will  know  it  or  die,"  ventured  to  take  the  liberty  to 
inquire,  if  he  miglit  presume  so  far,  as  to  ask  his 
lordship,  by  what  accident  he  had  been  deprived  of 
the  valuable  limb,  which  appeared  to  be  wanting  to 
his  lordship's  otherwise  fine  person. 

His  lordship  was  amused  at  the  air  and  manner  with 
which  the  question  was  put ;  like  those  of  a  raw  lad, 
who  shuts  his  eye,  when  taking  aim  with  a  gun. 
The  displeasure  he  would  otherwise  have  felt  was 
turned  into  merriment ;  and  he  determined  to  sport 
with  their  unconscionable  curiosity. 


244  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

"  Why,  my  friends,"  said  he,  "  what  good  would 
it  do  you  to  be  informed  ?  How  many  questions  I 
have  already  answered  you  this  morning !  You  now 
ask  me  how  1  lost  my  leg  ;  if  I  answer  you  on  that 
point,  you  will  wish  to  know  the  when,  and  the 
wherefore  ;  and  instead  of  satisfying  I  shall  only  ex- 
cite your  curiosity. 

"  Oh  no,"  they  replied,  "  if  his  lordship  would 
but  condescend  to  answer  them  this  one  question, 
they  would  agree  never  to  ask  him  another." 

His  lordship  paused  a  moment,  musing  ;  and  then 
added,  with  a  smile,  '•  But  will  you  pledge  yourselves 
to  me  to  that  eftect  ? " 

Oh,  they  were  willing  to  lay  themselves  under  any 
obligation  ;  they  would  enter  into  bond  not  to  trouble 
his  lordship  with  any  farther  question  ;  they  would 
forfeit  a  thousand  pounds,  if  they  did  not  keep  their 
word. 

"  Done,  gentlemen,"  said  his  lordship,  "  I  accept 
the  condition — I  will  answer  your  question,  and  take 
your  bond  never  to  put  me  another." 

The  affected  mystery,  the  delay,  and  the  near  pros- 
pect of  satisfying  their  own  curiosity,  rendered  our 
visitors  perfectly  indifferent  to  the  conditions,  on 
which  they  were  to  obtain  the  object  of  their  desire. 
His  lordship  rang  for  a  clerk,  to  whom  he  briefly 
explained  the  case,  directing  him  to  draw  up  a  bond, 
for  the  signature  of  his  inquisitive  countrymen.  The 
instrument  was  soon  produced,  and  ran  in  the  follovv- 
ingr  terms: 


curiosity  baffled.  245 

"  Know  all  men  by  these  presents, 
That  we,  Asabel  Ferret  and  Richard  Teasewell,  of 
the  town  of  Gossipbrldge  and  county  of  Tolland,  in 
his  majesty's  colony  of  Connecticut,  in  New  England, 
do  hereby  jointly  and  severally  acknowledge  ourselves 
firmly  holden  and  bound  to  his  woi^hip.  Sir  Brook 
Watson,  the  present  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  to  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  in  the  sum  of  one  thousand  pounds 
sterling ;  and  we  do  hereby,  for  ourselves,  our  heirs 
and  assigns,  covenant  and  agree,  to  pay  to  his  said 
worship,  the  present  Lord  Mayor  of  London,  to  his 
heirs  and  assigns,  the  aforesaid  sum  of  one  thousand 
pounds  sterling,  when  the  same  shall  become  due, 
accordinsj  to  the  tenor  of  this  oblis-ation  ; — 

And  the  condition  of  this  obligation  is  such,  that, 
whereas  the  aforesaid  Ferret  and  Teasewell,  of  the 
town  and  county,  he,  and  colony,  &:c.,  have  signified 
to  his  aforesaid  worship  their  strong  desire  to  be 
informed,  apprised,  instructed,  told,  made  acquainted, 
satisfied,  put  at  rest,  and  enlightened,  how  and  in 
what  manner  his  aforesaid  worship  became  deprived, 
mutilated,  maimed,  curtailed,  retrenched,  damnified, 
abated,  abscinded,  amputated,  or  abridged  in  the 
article  of  his  worship's  right  leg ;  and  whereas  his 
aforesaid  worship,  willing  to  gratify  the  laudable  curi- 
osity of  the  said  Ferret  and  Teasewell ;  but  desirous 
also  to  put  some  period,  term,  end,  close,  estoppel, 
and  finish,  to  the  numerous  questions,  queries,  inter- 
rogatories, inquiries,  demands,  and  examinations  of  the 
said  Ferret  and  Teasewell,  whereby  his  aforesaid 
21* 


246  '^HE   BOSTON  BOOK. 

worship  bath  been  sorely  teased,  worried,  wberreted, 
perplexed,  annoyed,  tormented,  afflicted,  soured  and 
discouraged ;  therefore,  to  the  end  aforesaid,  and  in 
consideration  of  the  premises  aforesaid,  bis  worship 
aforesaid,  bath  covenanted,  consented,  agreed,  prom- 
ised^ contracted,  stipulated,  bargained,  and  doth,  he. 
with  the  said  Ferret  and  Teasewell,  he,  he,  to 
answer  such  question,  as  they,  the  said  Ferret  and 
Teasewell,  shall  put  and  propound  to  his  said  wor- 
ship, in  the  premises,  touching  the  manner,  he,  he, 
truly,  and  without  guile,  covin,  fraud,  or  falsehood  ; 
and  the  said  Ferret  and  Teasewell,  also,  do  on  their 
part,  covenant,  consent,  agree,  promise,  stipulate,  and 
bargain  with  bis  aforesaid  worship,  and  have,  ^c, 
that  they  will  never  propound,  or  put  any  farther  or 
different  question  to  his  aforesaid  worship,  during  the 
term  of  their  natural  lives  ; — And  if  the  said  Ferret 
and  Teasewell,  or  either  of  them,  contrary  to  the 
obligation  of  this  bond,  shall  at  any  time  hereafter, 
put  or  propound  any  farther,  or  other,  or  different 
question  to  his  said  worship,  they  shall  jointly  and 
severally,  forfeit  and  pay  to  bis  said  worship,  the  sum 
aforesaid,  of  one  thousand  pounds,  sterling  money  ; 
and  if,  during  the  term  of  their  natural  lives,  they 
shall  utterly  forbear,  abstain,  renounce,  abandon,  ab- 
jure, withhold,  neglect,  and  omit,  to  propound  any 
such,  other,  or  farther,  or  different  question,  to  his 
aforesaid  worship,  then  this  bond  shall  be  utterly  null, 
void,  and  of  no  effect ; — but  otherwise  in  full  force 
and  validity. 


CURIOSITY  BAFFLED.  247 

Witness  our  band  and  seal,  this  tenth  day  of  Octo- 
ber, in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  seven 
hundred  and  sixty-nine. 

AsAHEL  Ferret.  (Seal.) 

Richard  Teasewell.      (Seal.) 

Signed,  sealed,  and  tlclivered, 
in  presence  of 

Francis  Fairservice. 
Samuel  Slyplay. 

Middlesex,  ss.  10th  October,  A.  D.  1769.  Then 
personally  appeared  before  me,  the  said  Asahel  Fer- 
ret and  Richard  Teasewell,  and  acknowledged  the 
aforesaid  obligation  to  be  their  free  act  and  deed. 

Attest,     Thomas  Trueman,  Justice  of  the  Peace. 
Stamp,  3s." 

The  instrument  was  executed,  handed  to  his  wor- 
ship, and  deposited  in  his  scrutoire. 

"  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  ''  I  am  ready  for  your 
question." 

They  paused  a  moment,  from  excess  of  excitement 
and  anticipation.  Their  feelings  were  like  those  of 
Columbus,  when  he  beheld  a  light  from  the  American 
shores  ;  like  Dr.  Franklin's,  when  he  took  the  electric 
spark  from  the  string  of  his  kite. 

"  Your  lordship  then  will  please  to  inform  us,  how 
your  lordship's  limb  was  taken  off." 

"  It  was  bitten  off  !  " 

They  started,  as  if  they  had  taken  a  shock  from 
an  electric  battery  ;  the  blood  shot  up  to  their  tern- 


248  THE  BOSTON  EOOK„  I 

i 

pies ;  they  stepped  each  a  pace  nearer  to  his  lordship.      | 
and  with  staring  eyes,  gaping  mouth,  and  with  up-      i 
lifted    hands,  were   about   to  pour  out  a  volley  of 
questions,  "  by  whom,  by  what  bitten  ;  how,  why,      \ 
when  ! "  i 

But  his  lordship  smilingly  put  his  forefinger  to  his  j 
lip,  and  then  pointed  to  the  scrutoire,  where  their  1 
bond  was  deposited.  | 

They  saw,  for  the  first  time  in  their  lives,  that  they  ! 
were  taken  in  ;  and  departed  rather  embarrassed  and 
highly  dissatisfied,  with  having  passed  an  afternoon,  in 
finding  out  that  his  lordship's  leg  was  bitten  off. 
This  mode  of  losing  a  limb  being  one  of  very  rare 
occurrence,  their  curiosity  was  rather  increased  than 
allayed  by  the  information ;  and  as  they  went  down 
stairs,  they  were  heard  by  the  servants,  muttering  to  | 
each  other,  '^  Who,  do  you  'spose,  bit  off  his  leg?'' 


THE   DYING  ARCHER. 


By  R.  C.  Waterston. 

The  day  has  near  ended,  the  light  quivers  through 
The  leaves  of  the  forest,  which  bend  with  the  dew, 
The  flowers  bow  in  beauty,  the  smooth-flowing  stream 
Is  gliding  as  softly  as  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  low  room  is  darkened,  there  breathes  not  a  sound, 
"While  friends  in  their  sadness  are  gathering  round  ; 
Now  out  speaks  the  Archer,  his  course  well  nigh  done, 
"  Throw,  throw  back  the  lattice,  and  let  in  the  sun  ?" 

The  lattice  is  opened  ;  and  now  the  blue  sky 
Brings  joy  to  his  bosom,  and  fire  to  his  eye  ; 
There  stretches  the  greenwood,  where,  year  after  year. 
He  "  chased  the  wild  roe-buck  and  followed  the  deer," 
He  gazed  upon  mountain,  and  forest,  and  dell, 
Then  bowed  he,  in  sorrow,  a  silent  farewell  : 
"And  when  we  are  parted,  and  when  thou  art  dead. 
Oh  where  shall  we  lay  thee  ?"  his  followers  said. 

Then  up  rosethe  Archer,  and  gazed  once  again 
On  far-reaching  mountain,  and  river,  and  plain ; 
"  Now  bring  me  my  quiver,  and  tighten  my  bow, 
And  let  the  winged  arrow  my  sepulchre  show  I" 


250  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Out,  out  through  the  lattice  the  arrow  has  passed, 
And  ill  the  far  forest  has  lighted  at  last ; 
And  there  shall  the  hunter  in  slumber  be  laid, 
Where  wild  deer  are  bounding  beneath  the  green  shade. 

His  last  words  are  finished  :  his  spirit  has  fled, 
And  now  lies  in  silence  the  form  of  the  dead. 
The  lamps  in  the  chamber  are  flickering  dim, 
And  sadly  the  mourners  are  chanting  their  hymn  ; 
And  now  to  the  greenwood,  and  now  on  the  sod. 
Where  lighted  the  arrow,  the  mourners  have  trod  ; 
And  thus  by  the  river,  where  dark  forests  wave. 
That  noble  old  Archer  hath  found  him  a  grave  ! 


DOMESTIC   INFLUENCE   OF   CHILDREN. 

By  R.  H.  Dana. 

The  relations  of  parents  and  children  are  the  holiest 
in  our  lives  ;  and  there  are  no  pleasures,  or  cares,  or 
thoughts  connected  with  this  world,  which  reminds  us 
so  soon  of  another.  The  helpless  infancy  of  children 
sets  our  own  death  before  us,  when  they  will  be  left 
to  a  world  to  which  w^e  would  not  trust  ourselves  ; 
and  the  thought  of  the  character  they  may  take  in 
after  life,  brings  with  it  the  question,  what  awaits 
them  in  another.  Though  there  is  a  melancholy  in 
this,  its  seriousness  has  a  religious  tendency.  And 
the  responsibility  which  a  man  has  laid  himself  under, 
begets  a  resoluteness  of  character,  a  sense  that  this 
world  was  not  made  to  idle  in,  and  a  feeling  of  dignity 
that  he  is  acting  for  a  great  end.  How  heavily  does 
one  toil  who  labors  only  for  himself;  and  how  is  he 
cast  down  by  the  thought  of  what  a  worthless  creature 
it  is  all  for  ! 

We  have  heard  of  the  sameness  of  domestic  life. 
He  must  have  a  dull  head  and  little  heart  who  grows 
weary  of  it.  A  man  who  moralizes  feelingly,  and  has 
a  proneness  to  see  a  beauty  and  fitness  in  all  God's 


252  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

works,  may  find  dally  food  for  his  mind  even  in  an 
infant.  In  its  innocent  sleep,  when  it  seems  like  some 
blessed  thing  dropped  from  the  clouds,  with  tints  so 
delicate,  and  with  its  peaceful  breathing,  we  can 
hardly  think  of  it  as  of  mortal  mould,  it  looks  so  like 
a  pure  spirit  made  visible  for  our  delight. 

"Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  says  Words- 
worth. And  who  of  us,  that  is  not  too  good  to  be 
conscious  of  his  own  vices,  who  has  not  felt  rebuked 
and  humbled  under  the  clear  and  open  countenance 
of  a  child  ? — who  that  has  not  felt  his  impurities  foul 
upon  him  in  the  presence  of  a  sinless  child  ?  These 
feelino-s  make  the  best  lesson  that  can  be  taught  a 
man  ;  and  tell  him  in  a  way  w^iich  all  else  he  has 
read  or  heard  never  could,  how  paltry  is  all  the  show 
of  intellect  compared  with  a  pure  and  good  heart. 
He  that  will  humble  himself  and  go  to  a  child  for 
instruction,  will  come  away  a  wiser  man. 

If  children  can  make  us  wiser,  they  surely  can 
make  us  better.  There  is  no  one  more  to  be  envied 
than  a  good  natured  man  watching  the  workings  of 
children's  minds,  or  overlooking  their  play.  Their 
eagerness,  curious  about  every  thing,  making  out  by 
a  quick  imagination  what  they  see  but  a  part  of — 
their  fanciful  combinations  and  magic  inventions,  cre- 
ating out  of  ordinary  circumstances,  and  the  common 
things  which  surround  them,  strange  events  and  little 
ideal  worlds,  and  these  all  working  in  mystery  to  form 
matured  thought,  is  study  enough  for  the  most  acute 
minds,  and  should  teach  us,  also,  not  too  officiously 


DOMESTIC  INFLUENCE  OF  CHILDREN.  253 

to  rer^ulate  what  we  so  little  understand.  The  still 
musing  and  deep  abstraction  in  which  they  sometinies 
sit,  aftect  ns  as  a  playful  niockery  of  older  heads. 
These  little  philosophers  have  no  foolish  system,  with 
all  its  pride  and  jargon,  confusing  their  brains. 
Theirs  is  the  natural  movement  of  the  soul,  intense 
with  new  life,  and  busy  after  truth,  working  to  some 
purpose,  though  without  a  noise. 

When  children  are  lying  about  seemingly  idle  and 
dull,  we,  who  have  become  case-hardened  by  time 
and  satiety,  forget  that  they  are  all  sensation,  that 
their  outstretched  bodies  are  drinking  in  from  the 
common  sun  and  air,  that  every  sound  is  taken  note 
of  by  the  ear,  that  every  floating  shadow  and  passing 
form  come  and  touch  at  the  sleepy  eye,  and  that  the 
little  circumstances  and  the  material  world  about  them 
make  their  best  school,  and  will  be  the  instructors 
and  formers  of  their  characters  for  life. 

And  it  is  delightful  to  look  on  and  see  how  busily 
the  whole  acts,  v.  ith  its  countless  parts  fitted  to  each 
other,  and  moving  in  harmony.  There  are  none  of 
us  who  have  stolen  softly  behind  a  child  when  labor- 
ing in  a  sunny  corner,  digging  a  lilliputian  well,  or 
fencing  in  a  six-inch  barn-yard,  and  listened  to  his 
soliloquies,  and  his  dialogues  with  some  imaginary  be- 
ing, without  our  hearts  being  touched  by  it.  Nor  have 
w^e  observed  the  flush  which  crossed  his  face  when 
finding  himself  betrayed,  without  seeing  in  it  the  deli- 
cacy and  propriety  of  the  after  man. 
22 


254  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

A  man  may  have  many  vices  upon  liim,  and  have 
walked  long  in  a  bad  course,  yet  if  he  has  a  love  of 
children,  and  can  take  pleasure  in  their  talk  and  play, 
there  is  something  still  left  in  him  to  act  upon — some- 
thing which  can  love  simplicity  and  truth.  I  have  seen 
one  in  whom  some  low  vice  had  become  a  habit,  make 
himself  the  plaything  of  a  set  of  riotous  children,  with 
as  much  delicrht  in  his  countenance  as  if  nothing  but 

o  o 

goodness  had  ever  been  expressed  in  it;  and  have  felt 
as  much  of  kindness  and  sympathy  toward  him,  as  I 
have  of  revolting  toward  another,  who  has  gone 
through  life  with  all  due  propriety,  with  a  cold  and 
supercilious  bearing  towards  children,  which  makes 
them  shrinking  and  still.  I  have  known  one  like  the 
latter,  attempt,  with  uncouth  condescension,  to  court 
an  open-hearted  child,  who  would  draw  back  with  an 
instinctive  aversion  ;  and  I  have  felt  as  if  there  were 
a  curse  upon  him.  Better  to  be  driven  out  from 
among  men,  than  to  be  disliked  of  children. 


DIRGE   OF  ALAKiC,  THE   VISIGOTH, 


Who  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards  buried 
in  the  channel  of  the  river  Busentius,  the  water  of  which  had  been  di- 
verted from  its  course  that  the  body  might  be  interred. 


By  Edward  Everett, 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain, 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear  ; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live. 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 
Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose  ; 

Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 
In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  : 

Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath. 

Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  Power  to  rest ; 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 

On  him  that  was  ''  the  scourge  of  God." 


256 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK, 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 
And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 

And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 
A  resting-place  forever  there  : 

Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 

Flow  back  upon  the  king  of  kings ; 

And  never  be  the  secret  said, 

Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth ; 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth  : 

For  e'en  though  dead  will  I  control 

The  tropics  of  the  -capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  tide, 

Ye  've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 
Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 
For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 
Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look  ; 
And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 
The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 
And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep, 
And  where  I  went,  the  spot  was  cursed, 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 


DIRGE   OF  ALARIC,  THE  VISIGOTH.  057 

See  how  their  hauglity  barriers  fail 

Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth, 
Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 

Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth, 
And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 
And  grovels  at  my  cliariot  wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car  ; 
'T  was  God  alone  on  high  did  send 

The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 
To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 
The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm  ; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered. 

And  vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  ways  through  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers. 

And  feeble  Caesars  shrieked  for  help 
In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers ; 

I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 

That  glittered  in  their  diadem. 

And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  die 

In  the  purple  of  their  majesty. 

And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 

Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 
22* 


258  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done ; 

I  go  to  Him  from  whence  I  came ; 
But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 
And  Roman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric, 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done — 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate. 
Impatient,  round  the  eternal  throne,  ! 

And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance,  wait ; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away  i, 

Before  the  name  of  Attila.  ! 


SKETCH  OF  CAPTAIN  NATHAN   HALE. 

By  Jared  Sparks. 

The  case  of  Captain  Nathan  Hale  has  been  regarded 
as  parallel  to  that  of  Major  Andre.  This  young  officer 
was  a  graduate  of  Yale  College,  and  had  but  recently 
closed  his  academic  course  when  the  war  of  the  revo- 
lution commenced.  Possessing  genius,  taste  and 
ardor,  he  became  distinguished  as  a  scholar ;  and, 
endowed  in  an  eminent  desfree  with  those  ori-aces  and 
gifts  of  nature  which  add  a  charm  to  youthful  excel- 
lence, he  gained  universal  esteem  and  confidence. 
To  high  moral  worth  and  irreproachable  habits  were 
joined  gentlenessof  manners,  an  ingenuous  disposition, 
and  vigor  of  understanding.  No  young  man  of  his 
years  put  forth  a  fairer  promise  of  future  usefulness 
and  celebrity  ;  the  fortunes  of  none  were  fostered 
more  sincerely  by  the  generous  good  wishes  of  his 
associates,  or  the  hopes  and  encouraging  presages  of 
his  superiors. 

Being  a  patriot  upon  principle,  and  an  enthusiast  in 
a  cause  which  appealed  equally  to  his  sense  of  jus- 
tice and  love  of  liberty,  he  was  among  the  first  to  take 
up  arms  in  his  country's  defence.     The  news  of  the 


250  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


battle  of  Lexington  roused  his  martial  spirit,  and  called     \ 
him  immediatelv  to  the  field.     He  obtained  a  commis-     i 
sion  in  the   army,  and   marched   with  his  company  to     ' 
Cambridge.     His   promptness,  activity,  and  assiduous     i 
attention  to  discipline,  were  early  observed.     He  pre-     ; 
vailed  upon  his  men  to  adopt  a  simple  uniform,  which     , 
improved  their  appearance,  attracted  notice,  and  pro-     ; 
cured  applause.     The  example  was  followed  by  others, 
and  its  influence  was  beneficial.     Nor  were  his  hours 
wholly  absorbed  by  his  military  duties.     A  rigid  econ- 
omy of  time  enabled  him  to  gratify  his  zeal  for  study 
and  mental  culture. 

At  length  the  theatre  of  action  w^as  changed,  and 
the  army  was  removed  to  the  southward.  The  battle 
of  Long  Island  was  fought,  and  the  American  forces  . 
were  drawn  together  in  the  city  of  New  York.  At  \ 
this  moment  it  was  extremely  important  for  Washing- 
ton to  know  the  situation  of  the  British  army  on 
on  the  heights  of  Brooklyn,  its  numbers,  and  the  indi- 
cations as  to  its  future  movements.  Having  confi- 
dence in  the  discretion  and  judgment  of  the  gallant 
Colonel  Knowlton,  who  commanded  a  Connecticut 
regiment  of  infmtry,  he  explained  his  wishes  to  that 
officer,  and  requested  him  to  ascertain  if  any  suitable 
person  could  be  found  in  his  regiment,  who  would 
undertake  so  hazardous  and  responsible  a  service.  It 
was  essential  that  he  should  be  a  man  of  capacity, 
address,  and  military  knowledge. 

Colonel  Knowlton  assembled  several  of  his  officers, 
stated  to  them   the  views  and  desires  of  the  General, 


SKETCH  OF  CAPTAIN  HALE.        261 

and  left  the  subject  to  their  reflections,  without  pro- 
posing the  enterprise  to  any  individual.  The  officers 
then  separated.  Captain  Hale  considered  deliberately 
what  had  been  said,  and  finding  himself  by  a  sense  of 
duty  inclined  to  the  undertaking,  he  called  at  the 
quarters  of  his  intimate  friend,  Captain  Hull,  (after- 
wards General  Hull,)  and  asked  his  opinion.  Hull 
endeavored  to  dissuade  him  from  the  service,  as  not 
befitting  his  rank  in  the  army,  and  as  being  of  a  kind 
for  which  his  openness  of  character  disqualified  him  ; 
adding,  that  no  glory  could  accrue  from  success,  and  a 
detection  would  inevitably  be  followed  by  an  igno- 
minious death. 

Captain  Hale  replied,  that  all  these  considerations 
had  been  duly  weighed,  that  ^'  every  kind  of  service 
necessary  to  the  public  good  was  honorable  by  being 
necessary,"  that  he  did  not  accept  a  comm.ission  for 
the  sake  of  fame  alone  or  personal  advancement,  that 
he  had  been  for  some  time  in  the  army  without  being 
able  to  render  any  signal  aid  to  the  cause  of  his  coun- 
try, and  that  he  felt  impelled  by  high  motives  of 
duty  not  to  shrink  from  the  opportunity  now  pre- 
sented. 

The  arguments  of  his  friend  vi^'ere  unavailing,  and 
Captain  Hale  passed  over  to  Long  Island  in  disguise. 
He  had  gained  the  desired  information,  and  was  just 
on  the  point  of  stepping  into  a  boat  to  return  to  the 
city  of  New  York,  when  he  was  arrested  and  taken 
before  the  British  commander.  Like  Andre,  he  had 
assumed  a  character  which  he  could  not  sustain  ;    he 


262  THE   BOSTON    BOOK. 

was  ''  too  little  accustomed  to  duplicity  to  succeed." 
The  proof  against  him  was  so  conclusive,  that  he  made 
no  effort  at  self-defence,  but  frankly  confessed  his  ob- 
jects ;  and  again,  like  Andre,  without  further  remarks, 
"  left  the  facts  to  operate  with  his  judges."  He  was 
sentenced  to  be  executed  as  a  spy,  and  was  accordingly 
hanged  the  next  morning. 

The  sentence  was  conformable  to  the  laws  of  war, 
and  the  prisoner  was  prepared  to  meet  it  with  a  forti- 
tude becoming  his  character.  But  the  circumstances 
of  his  death  aggravated  his  sufferings,  and  placed  him 
in  a  situation  widely  different  from  that  of  Andre. 
The  facts  were  narrated  to  General  Hull  by  an  officer 
of  the  British  commissary  department,  who  was  pres- 
ent at  the  execution,  and  deeply  moved  by  the  conduct 
and  fate  of  the  unfortunate  victim,  and  the  treatment 
he  received.  The  provost-martial,  to  whose  charge 
he  was  consigned,  was  a  refugee,  and  behaved  towards 
him  in  the  most  unfeeling  manner ;  refusing  the  atten- 
dance of  a  clergyman  and  the  use  of  a  Bible,  and  de- 
stroying the  letters  he  had  written  to  his  mother  and 
friends. 

In  the  midst  of  these  barbarities,  Hale  was  calm, 
collected,  firm  ;  pitying  the  malice  that  could  insult  a 
fallen  foe  and  dying  man,  but  displaying  to  the  last 
his  native  elevation  of  soul,  dignity  of  deportment,  and 
an  undaunted  courage.  Alone,  unfriended,  without 
consolation  or  sympathy,  he  closed  his  mortal  career 
with  the  declaration,  "  that  he  only  lamented  he  had 
but  one  life  to  lose  for  his  country."     When  Andre 


SKETCH  OF  CAPTAIN  HALE.  263 

Stood  upon  the  scaffold,  he  called  on  all  around  him  to 
bear  witness,  that  he  died  like  a  brave  man.  The 
dying  words  of  Hale  embodied  a  nobler  and  more 
sublime  sentiment;  breathing  a  spirit  of  satisfaction, 
that,  although  brought  to  an  untimely  end,  it  was  his 
lot  to  die  a  martyr  in  his  country's  cause.  The  whole 
tenor  of  his  conduct,  and  this  declaration  itself,  were 
such  proofs  of  his  bravery,  that  it  required  not  to  be 
more  audibly  proclaimed.  The  following  tribute  is 
from  the  muse  of  Dr.  D wight : 

"  Thus,  while  fond  virtue  wished  in  vain  to  save, 
Hale,  bright  and  generous,  found  a  hapless  grave  j 
With  genius'  living  flame  his  bosom  glowed, 
And  science  charmed  him  to  her  sweet  abode  5 
In  worth's  fair  path  his  feet  adventured  far. 
The  pride  of  peace,  the  rising  grace  of  war." 

There  was  a  striking  similarity  between  the  charac- 
ter and  acts  of  Hale  and  Andre,  but  in  one  essential 
point  of  difference  the  former  appears  to  much  the 
greater  advantage.  Hale  was  promised  no  reward, 
nor  did  he  expect  any.  It  was  necessary  that  the 
service  should  be  undertaken  from  purely  virtuous  mo- 
tives, without  a  hope  of  gain  or  of  honor;  because  it 
was  of  a  nature  not  to  be  executed  by  the  common 
class  of  spies,  who  are  influenced  by  pecuniary  consid- 
erations ;  and  promotion  could  not  be  offered  as  an 
inducement,  since  that  would  be  a  temptation  for  an 
officer  to  hazard  his  life  as  a  spy,  which  a  commander 
could  not  with  propriety  hold  out.  Viewed  in  any 
light,  the  act  must  be  allowed  to  bear  unequivocal 


264  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

marks  of  patriotic  disinterestedness  and  self-devotion. 
But  Andre  had  a  glorious  prize  before  him  ;  the  chance 
of  distinguishing  himself  in  a  military  enterprise,  honors, 
renown,  and  every  allurement  that  could  flatter  hope 
and  stimulate  ambition.  To  say  the  least,  his  personal 
advantages  were  to  be  commensurate  with  the  benefit 
to  his  country. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  parallel  between 
these  two  individuals  while  living,  it  ceased  with  their 
death.  A  monument  was  raised  and  consecrated  to 
the  memory  of  Andre  by  the  bounty  of  a  grateful  sove- 
reign. His  ashes  have  been  removed  from  their 
obscure  resting-place,  transported  across  the  ocean,  and 
deposited  with  the  remains  of  the  illustrious  dead  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  Where  is  the  memento  of  the 
virtues,  the  patriotic  sacrifice,  the  early  fate  of  Hale  ? 
It  is  not  inscribed  in  marble ;  it  is  hardly  recorded  in 
books.  Let  it  be  the  more  deeply  cherished  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen. 


AMERICA  TO   GREAT  BRITAIN. 


By  Washington  Allston. 

All  hail  !  thou  noble  land, 
Our  fathers'  native  soil  I 
Oh  stretch  thy  mighty  hand, 
Gigantic  grown  by  toil, 
O'er  the  vast  Atlantic  wave  to  our  shore  : 
For  thou,  with  magic  might, 
Canst  reach  to  where  the  light 
Of  Phcebus  travels  bright 
The  world  o'er  ! 

The  Genius  of  our  clime, 

From  his  pine-embattled  steep, 
Shall  hail  the  great  sublime ; 
While  the  Tritons  of  the  deep 
With  their  conchs  the  kindred  league  shall  proclaim. 
Then  let  the  world  combine — 
O'er  the  main  our  naval  line. 
Like  the  milky  way,  shall  shine 
Bright  in  fame  ! 

Though  ages  long  have  passed 
Since  our  fathers  left  their  home. 

Their  pilot  in  the  blast. 

O'er  untravelled  seas  to  roam, — 
23 


^QQ  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Yet  lives  the  blood  of  England  in  our  veins ! 
And  shall  we  not  proclaim 
That  blood  of  honest  fame, 
Which  no  tyranny  can  tame 
By  its  chains  ? 

While  the  language,  free  and  bold, 

Which  the  bard  of  Avon  sung. 
In  which  our  Milton  told 

How  the  vault  of  heaven  rung. 
When  Satan,  blasted,  fell  with  his  host ; 
While  this,  with  reverence  meet, 
Ten  thousand  echoes  greet, 
From  rock  to  rock  repeat 
Roujid  our  coast ; 

While  the  manners,  while  the  arts, 

That  mould  a  nation's  soul, 
Still  cling  around  our  hearts, 
Between  let  ocean  roll. 
Our  joint  communion  breaking  wuth  the  sun 
Yet,  still,  from  either  beach, 
The  voice  of  blood  shall  reach, 
More  audible  than  speech, 
''  We  are  one  ! " 


NOTCH  IN   THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS. 

By  J.  T.  Buckingham. 

The  sublime  and  awful  grandeur  of  this  passage 
baffles  all  description.  Geometry  may  settle  the 
heights  of  the  mountains  ;  and  numerical  figures  may 
record  the  measure  ;  but  no  words  can  tell  the  emo- 
tions of  the  soul,  as  it  looks  upward,  and  views  the 
almost  perpendicular  precipices,  which  line  the  narrow 
space  between  them  ;  while  the  senses  ache  with 
terror  and  astonishment,  as  one  sees  himself  hedged  in 
from  all  the  world  besides.  He  may  cast  his  eye  for- 
ward, or  backward,  or  to  either  side  ; — he  can  see 
only  upward,  and  there  the  diminutive  circle  of  his 
vision  is  cribbed  and  confined  by  the  battlements  of 
nature's  "  cloud-capped  towers,"  w^iich  seem  as  if 
they  w^anted  only  the  breathing  of  a  zephyr,  or  the 
wafting  of  a  straw  against  them,  to  displace  them,  and 
crush  the  prisoner  in  their  fall. 

Just  before  our  visit  to  this  place,  on  the  26th  of 
June,  18*26,  there  was  a  tremendous  avalanche,  or 
slide,  as  it  is  there  called,  from  the  mountain,  which 
makes  the  southern  w^all  of  the  passage.  An  im- 
mense mass  of  earth  and  rock,  on  the  side  of  the 


2(38  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

mountain,  was  loosened  from  its  resting  place,  and 
beiran  to  slide  towards  the  bottom.  In  its  course,  it 
divided  into  three  portions,  each  coming  down,  with 
amazing  velocity,  into  the  road,  and  sweeping  before 
it  shrubs,  trees,  and  rocks,  and  filling  up  the  road, 
beyond  all  possibility  of  its  being  removed.  With 
great  labor,  a  pathway  has  been  made  over  these 
fallen  masses,  which  admits  the  passage  of  a  carriage. 

There  are  many  trees  of  large  size  that  came  down 
with  such  force  as  to  shiver  them  in  pieces  ;  and 
innumerable  rocks,  of  many  tons'  weight,  any  one  of 
which  was  sufficient  to  cany  with  it  destruction  to 
any  of  the  labors  of  man.  The  spot  on  the  mountain, 
from  wdiich  the  slip  was  loosened,  is  now  a  naked, 
white  rock  ;  and  its  pathway  downward  is  indicated 
by  deep  channels,  or  furrows,  grooved  in  the  side  of 
the  mountain,  and  down  one  of  which  pours  a  stream 
of  water  sufficient  to  carry  a  common  saw-mill. 

From  this  place  to  the  Notch,  there  is  almost  a 
continual  ascent,  generally  gradual,  but  sometimes 
steep  and  sudden.  The  narrow  pathway  proceeds 
along  the  stream,  sometimes  crossing  it,  and  shifting 
from  the  side  of  one  mountain  to  the  other,  as  either 
furnishes  a  less  precarious  foothold  for  the  traveller 
than  its  fellow.  Occasionally  it  winds  up  the  side  of 
the  steep  to  such  a  height,  as  to  leave,  on  one  hand  or 
the  other,  a  gulf  of  unseen  depth  ;  for  the  foliage  of 
the  trees  and  shrubs  is  impervious  to  the  sight.  The 
Notch  itself  is  formed  by  a  sudden  projection  of  rock 
from  the  mountain  on  the  right  or  northerly  side,  rising 


NOTCH  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.  ^69 

perpendicularly  to  a  great  height — probably  seventy 
or  eighty  feet — and  by  a  large  mass  of  rock  on  the 
left  side,  which  has  tumbled  from  its  ancient  location, 
and  taken  a  position  within  twenty  feet  of  its  opposite 
neighbor. 

The  length  of  the  Notch  is  not  more  than  three  or 
four  rods.  The  moment  it  is  passed,  the  mountains 
seem  to  have  vanished.  A  level  meadow,  overgrown 
with  long  grass  and  wild  flowers,  and  spotted  with 
tufts  of  shrubbery,  spreads  itself  before  the  astonished 
eye,  on  the  left,  and  a  swamp,  or  thicket,  on  the 
right,  conceals  the  ridge  of  mountains  which  extend  to 
the  north  :  the  road  separates  this  thicket  from  the 
meadow.  Not  far  from  the  Notch,  on  the  right-hand 
side  of  the  road,  several  springs  issue  from  the  rocks 
that  compose  the  base  of  the  mountain,  unite  in  the 
thicket,  and  form  the  Saco  River.  This  little  stream 
runs  across  the  road  into  the  meadow,  v/here  it  almost 
loses  itself  in  its  meandering  among  the  bogs,  but 
again  collects  its  waters,  and  passes  under  the  rock 
that  makes  the  southerly  wall  of  the  Notch.  It  is 
here  invisible  for  several  rods,  and  its  presence  is  indi- 
cated only  by  its  noise,  as  it  rolls  through  its  rugged 
tunnel.  In  wet  seasons  and  freshets,  probably  a  por- 
tion of  the  water  passes  over  the  fragments  of  rock; 
which  are  here  wedged  together,  and  form  an  arch,  or 
covering,  for  the  natural  bed  of  the  stream. 

The  sensations,  which  affect  the^corporeal  faculties, 
as  one  views  these  stupendous  creations  of  Omnipo- 
tence, are  absolutely  afflicting  and  painful.  If  you 
23* 


270  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

look  at  the  summits  of  the  mountains,  when  a  cloud 
passes  towards  them,  it  is  impossible  for  the  eye  to 
distinguish,  at  such  a  height,  which  is  in  motion,  the 
mountain  or  the  cloud  ;  and  this  deception  of  vision 
produces  a  dizziness,  which  few  spectators  have  nerve 
enough  to  endure  for  many  minutes.  If  the  eye  be 
fixed  on  the  crags  and  masses  of  rock,  that  project 
from  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  the  flesh  involuntarily 
quivers,  and  the  limbs  seem  to  be  impelled  to  retreat 
from  a  scene  that  threatens  impendent  destruction. 
If  the  thoughts  wliich  crowd  upon  the  intellectual 
faculties  are  less  painful  than  these  sensations  of  flesh 
and  blood,  they  are  too  sublime  and  overwhelming  to 
be  described.  The  frequent  alterations  and  great 
changes,  that  have  manifestly  taken  place  in  these 
majestic  masses,  since  they  were  first  piled  together 
by  the  hand  of  the  Creator,  are  calculated  to  awaken 
"  thoughts  beyond  the  reaches  of  the  soul."  If  the 
"  everlasting  hills "  thus  break  in  pieces,  and  shake 
the  shaggy  covering  from  their  sides,  who  will  deny 
that 

Tliis  carllily  globe,  the  creature  of  a  da}', 

Though  built  by  GocFs  right  hand,  shall  pass  away  ? — 

The  sun  himself,  by  gathering  clouds  oppressed, 

Shall,  in  his  silent,  dark  pavilion  rest} 

His  golden  urn  shall  break,  and,  useless,  lie 

Among  the  common  ruins  of  the  sky  ; 

The  stars  rush  headlong,  in  the  wild  commotion. 

And  bathe  their  glitterhig  foreheads  in  tiie  ocean  ? 

Reflection  needs  not  the  authority  of  inspiration  to 
warrant  a  belief,  that  this  anticipation  is  something 
more  than  poetical.     History  and  philosophy  teach  its 


NOTCH  IN  THE  WHITE  MOUNTAINS.  271 

truth,  or  at  least,  its  probability.  The  melancholy 
imaginings  which  it  excites  are  relieved  by  the  con- 
viction that  the  whole  of  God's  creation  is  nothing 
less 

Than  a  capacious  reservoir  of  means, 
Formed  for  his  use,  and  ready  at  his  will ; 

and  that  if  this  globe  should  be  resolved  into  chaos,  it 
will  undergo  a  new  organization,  and  be  re-moulded 
into  scenes  of  beauty,  and  abodes  of  happiness. 
Such  may  be  the  order  of  nature,  to  be  unfolded  in  a 
perpetual  series  of  material  production  and  decay — 
of  creation  and  dissolution — a  magnificent  procession 
of  worlds  and  systems,  in  the  march  of  eternity. 


THE  FREE  MIND. 


By  W.  L.  Garrison. 


High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 

And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways  : 
Yet  scorns  the  immortal  mind  this  base  control  ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And  in  a  flash  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes  ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount ;  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fire-side  tale, 

Or,  in  sweet  converse,  pass  the  joyous  hours. 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 
And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star  ! 


VISIT  TO  LAFAYETTE. 


By  Henry  R.  Cleveland. 

I  SHARED  in  the  desire,  common  to  all  my  country- 
men who  arrive  in  France,  to  see  Lafayette  ;  but  I 
was  told  that  it  would  be  of  no  use  to  call  and  present 
letters  at  his  house,  for  he  was  so  much  occupied  with 
public  affairs,  that  I  should  never  be  able  to  obtain  an 
interview  in  this  way.  Not  long  after  my  arrival  in 
Paris,  however,  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  at 
a  soiree,  at  the  house  of  the  American  Minister.  I 
saw  him  surrounded  by  a  crowd,  who  flocked  to  meet 
him  at  his  entrance  ;  I  saw  him  entertaining  them 
with  conversation,  bright  and  courtier-like,  as  when, 
half  a  century  before,  he  formed  the  ornament  of  the 
dainty  saloons  of  Marie  Antoinette.  I  softly  joined 
the  number  who  had  gathered  round  him,  but  did 
not  then  venture  to  be  presented.  I  afterwards  met 
him  at  many  other  balls  and  parties,  and  observed,  in 
every  instance,  the  same  appearance  of  vivacity  and 
youthful  feeling,  which  surprised  me  at  first.  Age  did 
not  appear  to  have  dimmed  his  powers  in  the  least ; 
and  at  seventy-five,  the  old  man  was  still  the  star  of 
the  saloons,  the  foremost  of  his  party,  the  pride  of 
two  worlds. 


274  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  become  much  acquainted 
with  Lafayette,  during  the  succeeding  year.  A  num- 
ber of  Americans,  at  his  instance,  had  formed  them- 
selves into  a  committee,  to  assist  him  in  distributing  to 
the  refugee  Poles  the  money  sent  them  from  America, 
for  their  relief.  I  was  a  member  of  this  committee ; 
we  met  every  Wednesday  evening,  at  the  house  of 
Mr.  J.  Fenimore  Cooper.  Lafayette  was  a  constant 
attendant ;  and  as  our  business  never  occupied  much 
time,  we  were  usually  entertained  by  his  conversa- 
tion. He  was  a  great  talker,  and  he  talked  well.  I 
have  never  been  more  interested  in  any  discussion, 
than  in  the  conversations  at  these  meetings.  One 
evening,  I  shall  long  remember.  It  was  the  twenty- 
second  of  February,  the  hundredth  anniversary  of 
Washington's  birth  day.  We  had  met  to  transact  the 
business  of  the  committee  ;  probably  most  of  us,  with- 
out reflecting  what  the  day  was.  The  fact  was  men- 
tioned, by  some  one,  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  and 
our  hospitable  entertainer  proposed  drinking  to  the 
memory  of  the  father  of  our  country  ;  and  accordingly 
champagne  was  brought.  Lafayette  was  much  inter- 
ested— told  us  numerous  anecdotes  of  Washington  and 
the  American  revolution ;  and  we  remained  till  a  late 
hour  of  the  night,  listening  to  the  conversation,  and 
not  envying  our  friends  at  home,  tlie  dinners  and  balls 
and  other  festivities,  which  graced  the  occasion. 

Having  received  an  invitation,  from  Lafayette,  to 
visit  Lagrange,  I  left  Paris,  in  company  with  an 
American  friend,  one  fine  morning  in  June,  in  the 
diligence  for  Rosoy,  the  nearest  village  to  the  Gene- 


VISIT  TO  LAFAYETTE  ^275 

ral's  estate.  The  distance  is  about  tbirty-five  miles, 
over  a  road,  for  the  most  part,  uninteresting.  The 
castle  of  Vincennes  attracted  our  attention,  tbougb  we 
had  not  time  to  stop  and  examine  it.  It  appeared  to 
be  a  collection  of  towers,  joined  by  a  wall  of  great 
height  and  thickness.  Some  of  the  towers  had  the 
appearance  of  antiquity  ;  but  the  rich  old  Gothic 
carved  work,  being  supplied  with  plain  masonry, 
wherever  it  had  perished,  the  effect  was  very  bad. 
On  the  whole,  if  we  except  the  Gothic  chapel,  the 
summit  of  which  alone  could  be  seen  above  the  wall, 
the  edifice  had  rather  the  appearance  of  our  state 
prisons,  than  of  a  military  fortress.  The  forest  of 
Vincennes  is  very  fine,  extending  over  an  immense 
tract,  and  formerly  used  by  the  kings  of  France  as 
hunting  ground.  Since  the  accession  of  Louis  Phil- 
lippe,  the  royal  forests  have  been  thrown  open  to  the 
public,  and  the  game  is  now  nearly  all  killed. 

Arrived  at  Rosoy,  we  took  a  guide  to  conduct  us 
to  Lagrange  ;  and  having  followed  the  public  road 
for  about  half  a  mile,  we  came  to  a  path,  by  the  road 
side,  which,  we  were  told,  would  conduct  us  to  the 
house.  We  followed  this  for  some  time,  winding 
through  the  wood  or  along  the  meadow,  till  we  at 
length  discerned,  amidst  a  bower  of  trees,  the  gray 
towers  of  the  chateau.  We  traversed  a  short  cause- 
way, deeply  shaded  with  pines  and  weeping  willows, 
crossed  the  little  bridge,  which  is  thrown  over  the 
moat,  and  entered  at  the  dark  and  heavy  Gothic  por- 
tal, which  opened  before  us  between  two  circular 
towers  covered  with  ivy,  which  curtains  the  whole 


276  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

side  of  the  castle.  We  afterwards  gathered  a  few 
leaves  of  tlie  ivy,  as  a  memorial  of  Lagrange — the 
more  interesting,  from  its  having  been  planted  by  the 
hands  of  Charles  James  Fox. 

Having  passed  the  gateway,  we  found  ourselves  in 
a  quadrangle,  around  three  sides  of  which,  the  castle 
is  built.  The  fourth  side  opens  to  the  west,  and 
aftbrds  a  fine  view  of  the  park,  which  is  clustered  with 
elms  and  other  trees,  and  stretches  away,  to  a  great 
distance,  on  each  side  of  the  chateau.  With  much 
ado,  we  found  our  way  to  the  right  door,  and,  having 
sent  up  our  names,  were  immediately  welcomed  by 
the  General,  in  his  usual  kind  and  hospitable  manner, 
and  at  once  installed  as  members  of  the  family. 

The  rooms  in  the  chateau  are  charmingly  situated, 
especially  those  in  the  circular  towers,  as  they  com- 
mand a  view  on  three  sides.  The  General  told  us, 
that  the  building  was  probably  erected  some  time  in 
the  thirteenth  century.  It  was,  originally,  a  very 
strong  castle — the  walls  being  immensely  tliick,  and 
of  solid  masonry  ;  and  as  we  looked  at  it,  there  was 
no  great  difficulty  in  imagining  what  its  original  ap- 
pearance might  have  been.  It  was  not  unlike  the  an- 
cient barons'  castles,  described  in  the  Waverly  novels ; 
the  fourth  side  of  the  quadrangle  was  then  undoubt- 
edly protected  by  a  lofty  and  strong  wall,  and  perhaps 
another  tower,  to  complete  the  six.  Behind  the  bat- 
tlements, the  knights  were  stationed,  on  the  approach 
of  an  enemy,  and  a  broad,  deep  moat  encircled  the 
whole  ;  the  draw-bridge  was  raised,  and  the  portcullis 
— the  frrooves  of  which  are  still  visible — defended  the 


VISIT  TO  LAFAYETTE.  277 

entrance,  wlille  the  narrow  loop-holes,  in  the  towers, 
bristled  with  arrows.  At  a  little  distance  stood  the 
chapel — respected  even  by  the  enemies  of  the  lords 
of  Lagrange — now,  most  unceremoniously,  converted 
into  a  barn.  The  exterior,  however,  retains  its  eccle- 
siastical appearance ;  and  being  surrounded  with 
trees,  is  a  very  picturesque  object. 

In  the  evening,  we  went  to  look  at  the  presents, 
which  Lafayette  had  received  from  America.  The 
first  which  we  noticed,  was  the  race-boat,  "  American 
Star,"  which  beat  the  English  boat,  at  New  York. 
A  very  pretty  house  is  built  over  it,  the  sides  of  which 
are  covered  with  wire  net-work,  so  that  the  boat  can 
always  be  seen  without  entering.  Thence  we  went 
to  the  farm-yard,  where  we  found  a  large  collection  of 
domestic  fowl,  of  every  kind ;  also,  pigs,  sheep, 
cattle,  of  American  breed,  in  abundance.  Every- 
thiiio;  looked  flourishino-  and  in  fine  order  ;  and  the 
barns  and  their  contents  would  have  done  honor  to  an 
English  farmer. 

We  spent  two  days,  at  this  charming  place,  walking 
in  the  park,  or  conversing  with  the  General  and  his 
interesting  family.  The  morning  after  we  arrived, 
we  had  a  proof  of  the  reverence  and  affection,  with 
which  Lafayette  was  regarded  by  the  neighboring 
inhabitants.  There  was  a  review  of  the  National 
Guard  of  Rosoy  that  day,  and  the  commandant  pro- 
posed to  come  and  salute  the  General — for  the  ses- 
sion of  the  Chambers  had  but  lately  closed  at  Paris, 
and  the  two  Lafayettes,  both  of  them  Deputies,  had 
very  recently  arrived  at  Lagrange.  The  troops,  to 
24 


278  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

the  number  of  three  or  four  hundred,  were  marched 
hito  the  inner  square  of  the  castle  ;  and  the  Mayor  of 
the  town,  who  accompanied  them,  made  a  speech  to 
the  General,  expressing  the  approbation  of  his  con- 
stituents, and  their  satisfaction  at  seeing  him  among 
them  again  ;  which  speech  was  followed  by  lively 
acclamations  of  "Vive  le  General  I  ^^  The  old  man 
replied  to  them  with  propriety  and  eloquence  ;  and, 
as  I  had  never  been  able  to  hear  him  respond  in  this 
way  in  America,  I  was  greatly  pleased  to  hear  him 
speak  on  such  an  occasion,  at  home. 

Indeed,  it  had  a  strong  effect  on  my  feelings,  to 
visit  this  venerable  man,  thus  at  his  own  quiet  home. 
I  had  seen  him  six  years  before,  on  his  triumphal 
journey  through  the  States,  and  I  supposed,  when  he 
bade  farevvell  to  our  shores,  that  I  had  seen  him  for 
the  last  time.  To  behold  him  again,  in  his  own 
country,  after  my  long  wanderings ;  to  visit  him  at 
his  home,  to  see  him  surrounded  by  his  cliildren, 
down  to  the  fourth  generation,  and  living  among 
them  in  patriarchal  dignity ;  to  wander  with  him,  in 
the  hospitable  shades  of  Lagrange,  and  listen  to  his 
conversation,  alike  interesting,  whether  it  turned  on 
the  past  or  the  present — all  this  inspired  me  with 
new  emotions  ;  and  I  seemed  rather  to  be  in  the  pres- 
ence of  one  who  was  rewarded  for  the  labors,  coun-. 
sels,  and  dangers  of  a  well-spent  life,  by  a  habitation 
in  the  dwelling-place  of  the  blest,  than  of  a  mortal 
like  myself. 


LINES, 

AVKITTEN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  DAUGHTER. 

By  Joseph  Story. 

||!'arewell,  my  darling  cliild^  a  sad  farewell ! 
iTIiou  art  gone  from  earth,  in  heavenly  scenes  to  dwell, 
^or  sure,  if  ever  being,  formed  from  dust. 
Might  hope  for  bliss,  thine  is  that  holy  trust. 
Spotless  and  pure,  from  God  thy  spirit  came ; 
.Spotless  it  has  returned,  a  brighter  flame. 
^Thy  last,  soft  prayer  was  heard — No  more  to  roam  ; 
Tliou  art,  ('twas  all  thy  wish,)  thou  art  gone  home.* 
Ours  are  the  loss  and  agonizing  grief, 
fThe  slow,  dead  hours,  the  sighs  without  relief, 
iThe  lingering  nights,  the  thoughts  of  pleasure  past. 
Memory,  that  wounds,  and  darkens,  to  the  last. 
How  desolate  the  space,  how  deep  the  line, 
That  part  our  hopes,  our  fates,  our  paths,  from  thine ! 
We  tread  with  faltering  steps  the  shadowy  shore ; 
Thou  art  at  rest,  where  storms'can  vex  no  more. 
When  shall  we  meet  again,  and  kiss  away 
he  tears  of  joy  in  one  eternal  day  ? 


j*  The  last  words,  uttered  but  a  k\v  moments  before  her  death,  were— 
'I  want  to  g-o  home.'' 


280  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Most  lovely  thou  !  in  beauty's  rarest  truth  ! 
A  cherub's  face  ;  the  breathing  blush  of  youth ; 
A  smile  more  sweet  than  seemed  to  mortal  given ; 
An  eye  that  spoke,  and  beamed  the  light  of  heaven; 
A  temper  like  the  balmy  summer  sky. 
That  soothes,  and  warms,  and  cheers,  when  life  b 

high; 
A  bounding  spirit,  which,  in  sportive  chase, 
Gave,  as  it  moved,  a  fresh  and  varying  grace  ; 
A  voice,  whose  music  warbled  notes  of  mirth. 
Its  tones  unearthly,  or  scarce  formed  for  earth ; 
A  mind,  which  kindled  Vi^ith  each  passing  thought, 
And  gathered  treasures,  when  they  least  were  sought  ;-^ 
These  were  thy  bright  attractions  ;  these  had  power. 
To  spread  a  nameless  charm  o'er  every  hour. 
But  that  which,  more  than  all,  could  bliss  impart,       *^5| 
Was  thy  warm  love,  thy  tender,  buoyant  heart,   ' 
Thy  ceaseless  flow  of  feeling,  like  the  rill. 
That  fills  its  sunny  banks,  and  deepens  still. 
Thy  chief  delight  to  fix  thy  parents'  gaze, 
Win  their  fond  kiss,  or  gain  their  modest  praise. 

When  sickness  came,  though  short,  and  hurried  o'er, 
It  made  thee  more  an  angel  than  before. 
How  patient,  tender,  gentle,  though  disease 
Preyed  on  thy  life  ! — how  anxious  still  to  please  I 
How  oft  around  thy  mother's  neck  entwined 
Thy  arms  were  folded,  as  to  Heaven  resigned ! 
How  oft  thy  kisses  on  her  pallid  cheek 
Spoke  all  thy  love,  as  language  ne'er  could  speak  ! 
E'en  the  last  whisper  of  thy  parting  breath 
Asked,  and  received,  a  mother's  kiss,  in  death. 


DEATH  OF  A  DAUGHTER.  2Q1 

But  oh  !  how  vain,  by  art,  or  words,  to  tell, 
What  ne'er  was  told — affection's  magic  spell  I 
More  vain  to  tell  that  sorrow  of  the  soul, 
That  works  in  secret,  works  beyond  control, 
When  death  strikes  down,  with  sudden  crush  and  power. 
Parental  hope,  and  blasts  its  opening  flower. 
Most  vain  to  tell,  how  deep  that  long  despair. 
Which  time  ne'er  heals,  which  time  can  scarce  impair. 

Yet  still  I  love  to  linger  on  the  strain 

'T  is  grief's  sad  privilege.     Wv;hen  we  complain, 
Our  hearts  are  eased  of  burdens  hard  to  bear ; 
We  mourn  our  loss,  and  feel  a  comfort  there. 

My  child,  my  darling  child,  how  oft  with  thee 
Have  I  passed  hours  of  blameless  ecstasy  ! 
How  oft  have  wandered,  oft  have  paused  to  hear 
Thy  playful  thoughts  fall  sweetly  on  my  ear  !^ 
How  oft  have  caught  a  hint  beyond  thy  age, 
Fit  to  instruct  the  wise,  or  charm  the  sage  ! 
How  oft,  with  pure  delight,  have  turned  to  see 
Thy  beauty  felt  by  all,  except  by  thee ; 
Thy  modest  kindness,  and  thy  searching  glance ; 
Thy  eager  movements,  and  thy  graceful  dance ; 
And,  while  I  gazed  with  all  a  father's  pride, 
Concealed  a  joy,  worth  all  on  earth  beside ! 

How  changed  the  scene  !    In  every  favorite  walk 
I  miss  thy  flying  steps,  thy  artless  talk  ; 
Where'er  I  turn,  I  feel  thee  ever  near  ; 
Some  frail  memorial  comes,  some  image  dear. 
Each  spot  still  breathes  of  thee — each  garden  flower 
24* 


282  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Tells  of  the  past,  in  sunshine,  or  in  shower  ; 
And  here,  the  chair,  and  there,  the  sofa  stands, 
Pressed  by  thy  form,  or  polish^'  by  thy  hands. 
My  home,  how  full  of  thee  ! — But  where  art  thou  ? 
Gone,  like  the  sunbeam  from  the  mountain's  brdw  j 
But,  unlike  that,  once  passed  the  fated  bourn. 
Bright  beam  of  heaven,  thou  never  shalt  return. 
Yet,  yet,  it  soothes  my  heart  on  thee  to  dwell ; 
Louisa,  darling  child,  farewell,  farewell ! 


LIFE  AT  SEA. 


PASSAGES    FROM    "  TWO    YEARS    BEFORE    THE    MAST. 


By  R.  H.  Dana,  Jr. 


AN    ICEBERG. 


At  twelve  o'clock  we  went  below,  and  had  just  got 
through  dinner,  when  the  cook  put  his  head  down  the 
scuttle  and  told  us  to  come  on  deck  and  see  the  finest 
sight  that  we  had  ever  seen.  "  Where  away,  cook  ?" 
asked  the  first  man  who  was  up.  "  On  the  larboard 
bow."  And  there  lay,  floating  in  the  ocean,  several 
miles  ofi:',  an  immense,  irregular  mass,  its  top  and  points 
covered  with  snow^,  and  its  centre  of  a  deep  indigo 
color.  This  was  an  iceberg,  and  of  the  largest 
size,  as  one  of  our  men  said  who  had  been  in  the 
Northern  ocean.  As  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  the 
sea  in  every  direction  was  of  a  deep  blue  color,  the 
waves  running  high  and  fresh,  and  sparkling  in  the 
light,  and  in  the  midst  lay  this  immense  mountain- 
island,  its  cavities  and  valleys  thrown  into  deep  shade, 
and  its  points  and  pinnacles  glittering  in  the  sun.  All 
hands  were  soon  on  deck,  looking  at  it,  and  admiring 
in  various  ways  its  beauty  and  grandeur.     But  no 


4^34  THE   BOSTON  BOOK. 

description  can  give  any  idea  of  the  strangeness,  splen- 
dor, and,  really,  the  sublimity,  of  the  sight.  Its  great 
size  ; — for  it  must  have  been  from  two  to  three  miles 
in  circumference,  and  several  hundred  feet  in  height : 
its  slow  motion,  as  its  base  rose  and  sank  in  the  water, 
and  its  high  points  nodded  against  the  clouds  ;  the 
dashing  of  the  waves  upon  it,  which,  breaking  high 
with  foam,  lined  its  base  with  a  white  crust ;  and  the 
thundering  sound  of  the  cracking  of  the  mass,  and  the 
breaking  and  tumbling  down  of  huge  pieces  ;  together 
w'nh  its  nearness  and  approach,  wliich  added  a  slight 
element  of  fear — all  combined  to  give  to  it  the  char- 
acter of  true  sublimity.  The  main  body  of  the  mass 
was,  as  I  have  said,  of  an  indigo  color,  its  base  crusted 
with  frozen  foam  ;  and  as  it  grew  thin  and  transparent 
toward  the  edges  and  top,  its  color  shaded  off  from  a 
deep  blue  to  the  whiteness  of  snow\  It  seemed  to  be 
drifting  slowly  toward  the  north,  so  that  we  kept  away 
and  avoided  it.  It  was  in  sight  all  the  afternoon  ;  and 
when  w^e  got  to  leeward  of  it,  the  wind  died  away,  so 
that  we  lay-to  quite  near  it  for  a  greater  part  of  the 
night.  Unfortunately,  there  was  no  moon,  but  it  was 
a  clear  night,  and  we  could  plainly  mark  the  long, 
regular  heaving  of  the  stupendous  mass,  as  its  edges 
moved  slowly  against  the  stars.  Several  times  in  our 
*w^atch  loud  cracks  were  heard,  which  sounded  as 
though  they  must  have  run  through  the  whole  length 
of  the  iceberg,  and  several  pieces  fell  down  with  a 
thundering  crash,  plunging  heavily  into  the  sea.  To- 
ward morning,  a  strong  breeze  sprang  up,  and  we 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  2Q5 

filled  away,  and  left  it  astern ;  and  at  daylight  it  was 
out  of  sight. 


SHIP    UNDER    FULL    SAIL. 


Notwithstanding  all  that  has  been  said  about  the 
beauty  of  a  ship  under  full  sail,  there  are  very  few 
who  have  ever  seen  a  ship,  literally,  under  all  her  sail. 
A  ship  coming  in  or  going  out  of  port,  with  her  ordi- 
nary sails,  and  perhaps  two  or  three  studding-sails, 
is  commonly  said  to  be  under  full  sail  ;  but  a  ship 
never  has  all  her  sail  upon  her,  except  when  she  has 
a  light,  steady  breeze,  very  nearly,  but  not  quite  dead 
aft,  and  so  regular  that  it  can  be  trusted,  and  is  likely 
to  last  for  some  time.  Then,  with  all  her  sails,  light 
and  heavy,  and  studding-sails,  on  each  side,  alow  and 
aloft,  she  is  the  most  glorious  moving  object  in  the 
world.  Such  a  sight,  very  few,  even  some  who  have 
been  at  sea  a  good  deal,  have  ever  beheld  ;  for  from 
the  deck  of  your  own  vessel  you  cannot  see  her,  as 
you  would  a  separate  object. 

One  night,  while  we  were  in  these  tropics,  I  went 
out  to  the  end  of  the  flying-jib-boom,  upon  some 
duty,  and  having  finished  it,  turned  round,  and  lay 
over  tlie  boom  for  a  long  time,  admiring  the  beauty  of 
the  sight  before  me.  Beino;  so  far  out  from  the  deck, 
I  could  look  at  the  ship,  as  at  a  separate  vessel ; — 
and  there,  rose  up  from  the  water,  supported  only  by 
the  small  black  hull,  a  pyramid  of  canvass,  spreading 
out  far  beyond  the  hull,  and  towering  up  almost,  as  it 
seemed  in  the  indistinct  night  air,  to  the  clouds.    The 


286  THE  BOSTOxN  BOOK. 

sea  was  as  still  as  an  inland  lake  ;  the  light  trade- 
wind  was  gently  and  steadily  breatliing  from  astern ; 
the  dark  blue  sky  was  studded  with  the  tropical  stars  ; 
there  was  no  sound  but  the  rippling  of  the  water 
under  the  stem  ;  and  the  sails  were  spread  out,  wide 
and  high ; — the  two  lower  studding-sails  stretching, 
on  each  side,  far  beyond  the  deck ;  the  top-mast 
studding-sails,  like  wings  to  the  top-sails  ;  the  top- 
gallant studding-sails  spreading  fearlessly  out  above 
them  ;  still  higher,  the  two  royal  studding-sails,  look- 
ing like  two  kites  flying  from  the  same  string  ;  and. 
highest  of  all,  the  little  sky-sail,  the  apex  of  the  pyra- 
mid, seeming  actually  to  touch  the  stars,  and  to  be 
out  of  reach  of  human  hand.  So  quiet,  too,  was  the 
sea,  and  so  steady  the  breeze,  that  if  these  sails  had 
been  sculptured  marble,  they  could  not  have  been 
more  motionless.  Not  a  ripple  upon  the  surface  of 
the  canvass  ;  not  even  a  quivering  of  the  extreme 
edges  of  the  sail — so  perfectly  were  they  distended 
by  the  breeze.  I  was  so  lost  in  the  sight,  that  I  for- 
got the  presence  of  the  man  who  came  out  with  me, 
until  he  said,  (for  he,  too,  rough  old  man-of-war's- 
man  as  he  was,  had  been  gazing  at  the  show,)  half 
to  himself,  still  looking  at  the  marble  sails — "  How 
quietly  they  do  their  work  !" 

A    TROPICAL    THUNDER    STORM. 

The  first  night  after  the  trade-winds  left  us,  while 
we  were  in  the  latitude  of  the  island  of  Cuba,  we  had 
a  specimen  of  a  true  tropical  thunder  storm.     A  light 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  2g7 

breeze  had  been  blowing  from  aft  during  the  first  part 
of  the  night,  which  gradually  died  away,  and  before 
midnight  it  was  dead  calm,  and  a  heavy  black  cloud 
had  shrouded  the  whole  sky.  When  our  watch  came 
on  deck  at  twelve  o'clock,  it  was  as  black  as  Erebus  ; 
the  studding-sails  were  all  taken  in,  and  the  royals 
furled ;  not  a  breath  was  stirring ;  the  sails  hung 
heavy  and  motionless  from  the  yards  ;  and  the  perfect 
stillness,  and  the  darkness,  which  was  almost  palpable, 
were  truly  appalling.  Not  a  word  was  spoken,  but 
every  one  stood  as  though  waiting  for  something  to 
happen.  In  a  few  minutes  the  mate  came  forward, 
and  in  a  low  tone,  which  was  almost  a  whisper,  told 
us  to  haul  down  the  jib.  The  fore  and  mizen  top- 
gallant sails  were  taken  in,  in  the  same  silent  manner; 
and  we  lay  motionless  upon  the  water,  with  an  uneasy 
expectation,  which,  from  the  long  suspense,  became 
actually  painful.  We  could  hear  the  captain  walking 
the  deck,  but  it  was  too  dark  to  see  any  thing  more 
than  one's  hand  before  the  face.  Soon  the  mate 
came  forward  again,  and  gave  an  order,  in  a  low 
tone,  to  clew  up  the  main  top-gallant  sail  ;  and  so 
infectious  was  the  awe  and  silence,  that  the  clewlines 
and  buntlines  were  hauled  up  without  any  of  the  cus- 
tomary singing  out  at  the  ropes.  An  English  lad  and 
myself  went  up  to  furl  it ;  and  we  had  just  got  the 
bunt  up,  when  the  mate  called  out  to  us,  something, 
we  did  not  hear  what — but  supposing  it  to  be  an 
order  to  bear-a-hand,  we  hurried,  and  made  all  fast, 
and  came  down,  feeling  our  way  among  the  rigging. 


28g  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

When  we  got  down  we  found  all  bands  looking  aloft, 
and  there,  directly  over  where  we  had  been  standing, 
upon  the  main  top-gallant  mast-bead,  was  a  ball  of 
light,  which  the  sailors  name  a  corposant,  (corpus 
sancti,)  and  which  the  mate  had  called  out  to  us  to 
look  at.  They  were  all  watching  it  carefully,  for 
sailors  have  a  notion  that  if  the  corposant  rises  in  the 
rigging,  it  is  a  sign  of  fair  weather,  but  if  it  comes 
lower  down,  there  will  be  a  storm.  Unfortunately, 
as  an  omen,  it  came  down,  and  showed  itself  on  the 
top-gallant  yard-arm.  We  were  off  the  yard  in  good 
season,  for  it  is  held  a  fatal  sign  to  have  the  pale  light 
of  the  corposant  thrown  upon  one's  face.  As  it  was, 
the  English  lad  did  not  feel  comfortably  at  having  had 
it  so  near  him,  and  directly  over  his  head.  In  a  few 
minutes  it  disappeared,  and  showed  itself  again  on  the 
fore  top-gallant  yard  ;  and  after  playing  about  for 
some  time,  disappeared  again  ;  when  the  man  on  the 
forecastle  pointed  to  it  upon  the  flying-jib-boom-end. 
But  our  attention  was  drawn  from  watching  this,  by 
the  falling  of  some  drops  of  rain,  and  by  a  perceptible 
increase  of  the  darkness,  which  seemed  suddenly  to 
add  a  new  shade  of  blackness  to  the  night.  In  a  few 
minutes,  low,  grumbling  thunder  was  heard,  and  some 
random  flashes  of  li(]fhtninfT  came  from  the  south-west. 
Every  sail  was  taken  in  but  the  top-sails ;  still,  no 
squall  appeared  to  be  coming.  A  kw  puffs  lifted  the 
top-sails,  but  they  fell  again  to  the  mast,  and  all  was 
as  still  as  ever.  A  moment  more,  and  a  terrific  flash 
and  peal  broke  simultaneously  upon  us,  and  a  cloud 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  ggg 

appeared  to  open  directly  over  our  heads  and  let  down 
the  water  in  one  body,  like  a  falhng  ocean.  We 
stood  motionless,  and  almost  stupified  ;  yet  nothing 
had  been  struck.  Peal  after  p^al  rattled  over  our 
heads,  with  a  sound  which  seemed  actually  to  stop  the 
breath  in  the  body,  and  the  ''speedy  gleams"  kept 
the  whole  ocean  in  a  glare  of  light.  The  violent  fall 
of  rain  lasted  but  a  few  minutes,  and  was  succeeded 
by  occasional  drops  and  showers;  but  the  lightning 
continued  incessant  for  several  hours,  breaking  the 
midnight  darkness  with  irregular  and  blinding  flashes. 
During  all  which  time  there  was  not  a  breath  stirring, 
and  we  lay  motionless,  like  a  mark  to  be  shot  at,  prob- 
ably the  only  object  on  the  surface  of  the  ocean  for 
miles  and  miles.  We  stood  hour  after  hour,  until  our 
watch  was  out,  and  we  were  relieved  at  four  o'clock. 
During  all  this  time,  hardly  a  word  was  spoken  ;  no 
bells  were  struck,  and  the  wheel  was  silently  relieved. 
The  rain  fell  at  intervals  in  heavy  showers,  and  we 
stood  drenched  through  and  blinded  by  the  flashes, 
which  broke  the  Egyptian  darkness  with  a  brightness 
which  seemed  almost  malignant;  while  the  thunder 
rolled  in  peals,  the  concussion  of  which  appeared  to 
shake  the  very  ocean.  A  ship  is  not  often  injured 
by  lightning,  for  the  electricity  is  separated  by  the 
great  number  of  points  she  presents,  and  the  quantity 
of  iron  which  she  has  scattered  in  various  parts. 
The  electric  fluid  ran  over  our  anchors,  top-sail  sheets 
and  ties  ;  yet  no  harm  was  done  to  us.  We  went 
below  at  four  o'clock,  leaving  things  in  the  same  state. 
25 


290  THE  BOSTON  BOOK.  i 

It  is  not  easy  to  sleep,  when  the  very  next  flash  may       j 
tear  the  ship  in  two,  or  set  her  on  fire  ;  or  where  the      | 
deathlike  calm  may  be  broken  by  the  blast  of  a  hur-      I 
ricane,  taking  the  masts  out  of  the  ship.     But  a  man       i 
is  no  sailor  if  he  cannot  sleep  when  he  turns  in,  and 
turn   out  when  he 's  called.     And   when,  at  seven       i 
bells,  the  customary  '^  All  the  larboard  watch,  ahoy ! ''       1 
brought  us  on  deck,  it  was  a  fine,  clear,  sunny  morn- 
ing,  the   ship   going   leisurely   along,    with    a  good 
breeze  and  all  sail  set. 


THE  ANNOYER. 


By  N.  p.  Willis. 


"  Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familiar  voice  wearies  not  ever." 


Love  knoweth  every  form  of  air, 

And  every  shape  of  earth, 
And  comes,  unbidden,  every  where, 

Like  thought's  mysterious  birth. 
The  moonlit  sea  and  the  sunset  sky 

Are  written  with  Love's  words. 
And  you  hear  his  voice  unceasingly, 

Like  song  in  the  time  of  birds. 

He  peeps  into  the  warrior's  heart 

From  the  tip  of  a  stooping  plume. 
And  the  serried  spears,  and  the  many  men 

May  not  deny  him  room. 
He'll  come  to  his  tent  in  the  weary  night. 

And  be  busy  in  his  dream ; 
And  he'll  float  to  his  eye  in  morning  light, 

Like  a  fay  on  a  silver  beam. 

He  hears  the  sound  of  the  hunter's  gun, 
And  rides  on  the  echo  back. 


292  THE  BOSTON  BOOK.  | 

I 

And  sighs  in  his  ear,  like  a  stirring  leaf, 

And  flits  in  his  woodland  track.  I 

The  shade  of  the  wood,  and  the  sheen  of  the  river,  i 

The  cloud,  and  the  open  sky —  j 

He  will  haunt  them  all  with  his  subtle  quiver,  | 
Like  the  light  of  your  very  eye. 

The  fisher  hangs  over  the  leaning  boat,  i 

And  ponders  the  silver  sea,  i 

For  Love  is  under  the  surface  hid, 

And  a  spell  of  thought  has  he. 
He  heaves  the  wave  like  a  bosom  sweet. 

And  speaks  in  the  ripple  low, 
Till  the  bait  is  gone  from  the  crafty  line. 

And  the  hook  hangs  bare  below. 

He  blurs  the  print  of  the  scholar's  book, 

And  intrudes  in  the  maiden's  prayer, 
And  profanes  the  cell  of  the  holy  man. 

In  the  shape  of  a  lady  fair. 
In  the  darkest  night,  and  the  bright  daylight, 

In  earth,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
In  every  home  of  human  thought, 

Will  Love  be  lurking  nigh. 


RAVENNA. 


By  H.  T.  Tuckerman. 


Like  most  secondary  Italian  cities,  Ravenna  wears 
the  semblance  of  desertion.  At  noonday,  the  stranger 
may  often  ^valk  through  streets  deficient  neither  in 
spaciousness  or  noble  dwellings,  and  yet  encounter  no 
being,  nor  hear  a  sound  indicative  of  life,  far  less  of 
active  prosperity.  This  was  the  case,  to  a  remarkable 
degree,  on  the  day  of  my  visit,  as  it  occurred  during 
the  month  of  October,  when,  according  to  the  Italian 
custom,  most  of  the  nobility  were  at  their  villas ;  and 
the  sanitary  restrictions,  established  on  account  of  the 
cholera  then  raging  in  some  parts  of  the  country,  had 
greatly  diminished  the  usual  number  of  passing  travel- 
lers. In  the  piazza,  at  some  hours  of  the  day,  there 
is  a  little  life-like  appearance,  from  the  assemblage  of 
buyers  and  sellers,  and,  at  early  evening,  the  principal 
cafe  exhibits  the  usual  motley  company  collected  to 
smoke,  talk  scandal,  or  to  pore  over  the  few  journals 
which  the  jealousy  of  the  government  permits  to  find 
their  way  into  the  country.  These  restricted  vehicles 
of  communication  consist  of  little  else  than  an  epitome, 
from  the  French  journals,  of  the  most  important  polit- 
25* 


294  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

ical  and  other  passing  events,  collected  and  arranged 
with  as  little  reference  to  order  and  connection,  as  can 
well  be  imagined.  It  is  owing  to  the  garbled  and  con- 
fused notions  derived  from  these  paltry  gazettes,  to 
which  many  even  of  the  better  class  of  Italians  confine 
their  reading,  that  there  prevails  in  this  country  such 
profound  ignorance  of  the  most  familiar  places  and  facts. 
Some  of  the  ideas  existing  in  regard  to  the  United 
States,  afford  good  illustration  of  this  remark.  A  re- 
tired merchant  who  was  travelling  in  very  genteel  style, 
once  asked  me  if  Joseph  Bonaparte  was  still  king  of 
America.  A  monk  of  Genoa,  who  was  my  compan- 
ion in  a  voiture  in  Lombardy,  opened  his  eyes  with 
astonishment  when  informed  that  it  was  more  than  half 
a  century  since  we  had  ceased  to  he  an  English  colony; 
and  another  friar,  whose  ideas  of  geography  were  in 
rather  a  confused  state,  observed  that  he  considered 
mine  a  very  aristocratic  country,  judging  from  what  he 
had  read  of  our  president,  Santa  Anna.  A  young  Tus- 
can, of  respectable  standing,  inquired  if  one  could  go 
from  Italy  to  America,  without  passing  through  Mad- 
agascar ;  and  a  signora  of  some  pretensions,  begged, 
in  a  very  pathetic  voice,  to  know  if  we  were  much 
annoyed  with  tigers ! 

Life,  for  the  most  part,  in  these  reduced  towns, 
accords  with  the  limited  scope  of  the  prevaiHng  ideas. 
The  morning  is  lounged  away  in  listlessness ;  the 
ride  after  dinner,  and  the  conversazione  in  the  even- 
ing, being  the  only  ostensible  occupation,  except 
during  the  carnival,  when  some  theatrical  or  other 


RAVENNA.  295 

public  entertainment  is  generally  provided.  Those  of 
the  resident  nobility,  who  can  afford  it,  usually  travel 
half  the  year,  and  economize  the  remainder.  And  if, 
among  the  better  class,  there  are  those  whose  range 
of  knowledge  is  more  extensive,  or  whose  views  are 
nobler,  the  greater  part  soon  reconcile  themselves  to  a 
series  of  trifling  pursuits,  or  idle  dissipation,  as  the 
appropriate  offsets  to  their  hopeless  destiny.  Some- 
times, indeed,  a  rare  spirit  is  encountered,  superior  to 
the  mass,  and  incapable  of  compromising  either  princi- 
ple or  opinions,  however  objectless  it  may  seem  to 
cherish  them  ;  and  there  are  few  more  interesting 
characters  than  are  such  men,  in  the  view  of  the 
thoughtful  philanthropist;  beings  superior  to  their  as- 
sociates, and  worthy  of  a  better  fate  ;  men  who, 
amid  degrading  political  and  social  circumstances, 
have  the  strength  and  elevation  of  mind  to  think  and 
feel  nobly,  and  seek  by  communion  with  the  immortal 
spirits  of  the  past,  or  by  ennobling  anticipations,  con- 
solation for  the  weariness  and  gloom  of  the  present. 
Occasionally,  too,  in  such  decayed  cities,  the  stranger 
meets  with  those  w-ho,  cut  off  from  political  advan- 
tages, and  possessed  of  wealth,  have  devoted  them- 
selves to  the  pursuits  of  taste,  and  their  palaces  and 
gardens  amply  repay  a  visit.  Such  is  the  case  with 
the  eccentric  Ruspini,  one  of  the  Ravenese  nobility, 
w^iose  gallery  contains  many  valuable  and  interesting 
productions  of  art. 

At  an  angle  of  one  of  the  by-streets  of  Ravenna,  is 
a  small  building  by  no  means  striking,  either  as  regards 


296  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

its  architecture  or  decorations.  It  is  fronted  by  a 
gate  of  open  iron  work,  surmounted  by  a  cardinal's 
bat — indicating  that  the  structure  was  raised  or  reno- 
vated by  some  church  dignitary,  a  class  who  appear 
invariably  scrupulous  to  memorialize,  by  inscriptions 
and  emblems,  whatever  public  work  they  see  fit  to 
promote.  A  stranger  might  pass  this  little  edifice 
unheeded,  standing  as  it  does  at  a  lonely  corner,  and 
wearing  an  aspect  of  neglect ;  but  as  the  eye  glances 
through  the  railing  of  the  portal,  it  instinctively  rests 
upon  a  small  and  lime-stained  bass-relief,  fixed  in  the 
opposite  wall,  representing  that  sad,  stern,  and  ema- 
ciated countenance,  which,  in  the  form  of  busts,  en- 
gravings, frescos,  and  portraits,  haunts  the  traveller  in 
every  part  of  Italy.  It  is  a  face  so  strongly  marked 
with  the  sorrow  of  a  noble  and  ideal  mind,  that  there 
is  no  need  of  the  laurel  wreath  upon  the  head,  to 
assure  us  that  we  look  upon  the  lineaments  of  a  poet. 
And  who  could  fail  to  stay  his  feet,  and  still  the  cur- 
rent of  his  wandering  thoughts  to  a  deeper  flow,  when 
he  reads  upon  the  entablature  of  the  little  temple, 
"  Sepulchrum  Dantis  Poetcc  1 "  It  is  not  necessary 
that  one  should  have  solved  the  mysteries  of  the 
Divina  Commedia,  m  order  to  feel  the  solemn  interest 
which  attaches  to  the  spot  where  the  bones  of  its 
author  repose.  It  is  enough  to  know  that  we  are 
standing  by  the  tomb  of  a  man  who,  in  early  boyhood, 
loved;  and  cherished  the  deep  affection  then  born, 
after  its  object  was  removed  from  the  world,  through 
a  life  of  the  greatest  vicissitude,  danger,  and  grief, 


RAVENNA.  297 

making  it  a  fountain  of  poetic  inspiration,  and  a  golden 
link  which  bound  him  to  the  world  of  spirits ;  a 
quenchless  sentiment,  whose  intensity  vivified  and  hal- 
lowed existence.  It  is  sufficient  to  remember,  that 
we  are  near  the  ashes  of  a  man  who  proved  himself  a 
patriot,  and  when  made  the  victim  of  political  faction, 
and  banished  from  his  home,  wrapped  himself  in  the 
mantle  of  silent  endurance,  and  suffered  with  a  digni- 
fied heroism,  that  challenges  universal  sympathy  and 
respect.  It  is  sufficient  to  reflect,  that  they  who 
had  persecuted  the  gifted  Florentine  when  living,  have 
long  vainly  petitioned  those  among  whom  he  died,  for 
the  privilege  of  transporting  his  revered  remains  to 
the  rich  monument  prepared  for  them ;  and  that  a 
permanent  professorship  to  elucidate  his  immortal 
poem  is  founded  by  the  very  city  from  which  he  was 
ignobly  spurned.  It  is  enough  that  we  see  before  us 
the  sepulchre  of  a  man  who  had  the  intellect  and 
courage  to  think  beyond  and  above  his  age  ;  who  re- 
vived into  pristine  beauty  a  splendid  but  desecrated 
language  ;  who  fully  vindicated  his  title  to  the  char- 
acter of  a  statesman,  a  soldier,  and  a  poet;  and  in  a 
warlike  and  violent  age,  had  the  magnanimity  to  con- 
ceive, and  the  genius  to  create,  an  imperishable  monu- 
ment of  intellectual  revenore. 


DEPARTED  DAYS. 

By  O.  W.  Holmes. 

Yes^  dear  departed  cherished  daySy 

Could  memory's  hand  restore 
Your  morning  light,  your  evening  rays, 

From  Time's  gray  urn  once  more, — 
Then  might  this  restless  heart  be  siill. 

This  straining  eye  might  close, 
And  Hope  her  fainting  pinions  fold, 

While  the  fair  phantoms  rose. 

But,  like  a  child  in  ocean^s  arms. 
We  strive  against  the  stream, 

Each  moment  farther  from  the  shore. 
Where  life's  young  fountains  gleam — 

Each  moment  fainter  wave  the  fields, — 
And  wilder  rolls  the  sea  ; 

The  mist  grows  dark — the  sun  goes  down- 
Day  breaks — and  where  are  we  1 


RAIN. 

A   COLLOQUIAL   LECTURE. 
By  Wm.  H.  Simmons. 

"  Saints,"  salth  Mistress  Barbauld — who  was  more 
a  saint  herself,  James,  than  most  old  rhymers — she 
made  nice  hymns — nay,  boy,  curl  not  thy  pretty  lip — 
a  good  hymn-book,  unfingered  by  modern  revision,  is 
very  good  reading,  as  you  may  come  to  know,  when 
you  are  wiser — (perhaps  you  have  yet  to  learn  that  a 
hard  biscuit  and  olives  make  a  royal  supper — another 
crumb  of  philosophy  in  store  for  you) — 

"  Saints  have  been  calm  when  stretched  upon  the  rack, 
And  Montezuma  smiled  on  burning-  coals  5 
But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 
Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  washing  day  !  " 

Because,  forsooth,  it  forbids  her  to  hang  out  the  sub- 
jects of  her  lotion.  It  gives  her  the  means  of  washing 
them,  but  forasmuch  as  it  does  not  dry  them,  too,  she 
thinketh  no  shame  to  rail  in  its  honest  face.  Marry — 
she  must  learn  that  the  world  was  not  made  for 
clothes-lines,  nor  can  the  wind,  ^'  that  whirleth  about 
continually,"  be  a  respecter  of  wet  linen  ! 

Housewives  notable  are  we  all,  in  this  regard.     We 
scruple  not  to  "  fret  our  spleen  "  against  a  rainy  day, 


300  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

or  a  moderate  series  of  them,  as  against  a  common 
nuisance — a  vexatious  defeasance  of  all  the  purposes 
of  life.  As  if  the  air  were  not  to  be  disburdened, 
earth  not  to  imbibe  her  seasonable  beverage,  nor  the 
circulations  of  Nature  to  go  on — lest  our  napkins  dry- 
not — or  some  other  fatal  let,  or  pregnant  mischief 
befall ! 

Truly,  James,  we  need  a  frequency  of  rainy  days 
to  dash  our  petulant  presumption  !  to  assure  us  that 
"  the  great  globe  "  was  not  made  for  our  poor  ser- 
vice— that  we  are  a  transient  company  of  "  squatters," 
indulgently  sufiered  to  pick  a  living  off  it.  And  when 
''  this  goodly  frame,  the  Earth,  and  the  brave,  over- 
hanging Firmament,"  would  hold  their  natural  com- 
merce, of  generous  effusion  and  loving  receipt,  it  is 
well  that  we  have  to  retire  from  between  them,  and 
withdraw  our  interloping  insignificance — peeping  forth 
from  under  cover,  and  feeling  that  we  are  in  the  way 
in  the  world.     'T  is  a  wholesome  lesson  of  humility. 

Indeed,  James,  such  moist  abatement  of  the  busy 
vanities  and  turmoil  of  life  is  truly  edifying.  So 
plainly  does  it  let  us  know  that  our  shows  and  ex- 
changes and  combinations,  our  perpetual  pervasion  of 
streets,  and  going  up  and  down  in  the  earth,  are  of 
no  essential  import — inconsequential  fooleries — very 
lightly  esteemed  above.  So  that  he  who  is  sorely 
vexed  with  rainy  interruptions,  may  conclude  that  he 
lives  wrong — is  too  bitter  in  his  worldly  activity — 
makes  "  much  ado  about  nothing  " — and  the  sweet 
heavens  will  not  countenance  him  in  it ;  they  check 
and  detain  him  ;  and  the  continuous  rain  preacheth 


RAIN.  301 

him  a  sermon.     Why  will  he  not  profit  by  it — and 
sweeten  his  humors — and  be  quieted  ? 

Right  monitory  also,  to  you  younkers,  *^  if  pondered 
fittingly,"  and  to  all  the  minions  of  fortune  and  plea- 
sure, is  the  hueless  sobriety  of  a  rainy  day.  It 
washes  off,  as  it  were,  the  paint  and  gilding  from  the 
face  of  Life,  beats  down  her  gay  feather,  and  puts 
her  wanton  fancies  quite  out  of  countenance.  It  de- 
thrones and  blinds  the  "  garish  day,"  and  dresses 
him  in  sackcloth.  It  holds  in  abeyance  all  ^'  the  new- 
born gauds  of  the  time;"  or  if  they  venture  forth, 
they  show  right  sorrily — tempt  not  to  envy  or  imita- 
tion. You  are  not  solicited  by  "the  vile  screaking 
of  the  wrynecked  fife,"  to  look  out  upon  "  Christian 
fools  with  varnished  faces,"  nor  doth  "  the  sound 
of  shallow  foppery  enter  your  sober  house."  The 
streets,  that  seemed  to  concentrate  within  them  a 
w^orld  of  frivolity  and  pride  and  fantastic  gayety,  are 
no  longer  paced  by  wanton  feet.  You  look  forth  and 
see  nothing  going  forward  but  the  homeliest  offices  of 
society — the  supply  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  by 
humble  agents  ;  and  thus  you  see  what  life  and  so- 
ciety, in  their  coarse  under-texture,  really  are. 

In  cities,  we  are  apt  to  intercourse  too  much,  and 
reflect  and  study  too  little — no  better  acquainted  with 
ourselves,  often,  than  with  any  body  else.  Now  rain 
tends  to  keep  people  apart,  except  so  far  as  Provi- 
dence has  put  them  together,  in  families.  This  is 
well.  Were  LucuUus  oftener  reduced  to  sup  with 
Lucullus,  he  might  recover  his  dissipated  thoughts 
and  his  individuality,  worn  away  by  promiscuous 
26 


302  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

intercourse ;  and  the  undesigning  approaches  and 
familiar  communion  of  his  family  could  not  but  win 
and  intenerate  his  heart. 

Yes,  James,  a  rainy  day  nurses  more  amiability  than 
half  a  dozen  dry  ones.  Emollit  mores,  nee  sinit  esse 
feros.  It  makes  the  folly  of  ill-humor  so  manifest. 
When  a  testy  gentleman  salutes  a  wet  morning,  and 
finds  himself  condemned  to  the  inside  of  the  house  for 
the  day,  at  first,  perhaps,  he  frets  and  scolds  sadly. 
He  chokes  himself  with  fish-bones,  and,  to  comfort  the 
wounds,  swallows  scalding  coffee ;  his  questions  are 
sharp — his  answers  brief  or  none  ;  he  walks  the  house 
with  rueful  aspect  and  impatient  steps ;  he  plants 
himself  at  the  window  and  looks  straight  out.  But 
the  sky  relents  no  more  than  a  cope  of  lead,  and  its 
watery  issues  rather  thicken  than  fail.  A  very  dull 
spectacle  !  Monsieur  soon  tires  of  it  ;  he  gradually 
becomes  less  peripatetic — then  more  quiet — then 
serene — then  placid  ;  he  keeps  his  seat  for  some 
minutes  ;  now  and  then  he  relapses — but  the  fits  are 
less  and  less  outrageous  ;  he  reads  the  newspaper, 
and  laughs  at  something  in  it ;  he  calls  his  wife  by 
her  first  name.  She  talks  and  smiles,  and  ventures 
timidly  nearer.  He  is  disappointed  of  his  ennui. 
The  clock  surprises  him — It  must  be  too  fast ;  indeed, 
he  is  confident  he  shall  oullive  the  day  ;  and  at  length 
takes  up  a  pen  or  book — entirely  master  of  himself, 
in  love  with  his  wife,  and  tolerably  complaisant  even 
with  Providence. 

Now  ten  to  one,  James,  that  he  applies  himself 
more  effectually  than  if  the  sun  shone.     Give  me  a 


RAIN.  303 

rainy  day,  for  close  and  continuous  thought.  It 
invests  you  with  quietness ;  you  are  hermetically 
sealed.  It  dulls  the  pert  prattle  of  the  piano.  It 
quenches  the  "  fierce  loves  and  faithless  wars  "  of  all 
small  beasts  ;  so  that  no  canine  bark  nor  feline  ulula- 
tion  rises  "  on  the  wings  of  silence,"  to  startle  your 
seclusion.  It  blanks  your  windows.  In  the  intervals 
of  application,  you  look  through  them,  but  eye  nor 
thought  finds  any  thing  to  detain  it.  Your  subject 
seems  diffused  through  the  overcharged  air,  and  you 
gaze  and  gaze,  with  intent  abstraction,  till  your  flow 
of  thought  becomes  as  permanently  sober  and  steady 
as  the  day  itself.  A  day,  that  solicits  not  nor  tickles 
the  sense — plays  no  fantastic  tricks — but  stands  over 
you  with  the  vast,  gray,  motionless,  thought-moulded 
aspect  of  an  Egyptian  Sphynx.  What  a  preceptress 
— what  a  muse — what  a  foster-mother  of  studious 
thought,  to  political  economists,  and  lexicographers, 
and  deep  divines  !  They  should  mark  it  white,  in 
their  calendars.  Our  rains,  of  week  on  week,  must 
be  their  triumphant  seasons — their  magni  menses^ 
their  high  tides.  Then  labors  the  mind  with  weighty 
incumbency — with  a  long,  patient,  ox-like  draught. 
Then  are  all  logarithmic  tables  calculated  and  cor- 
rected— then  is  the  circle  squared — then  are  the  first 
principles  of  trade  and  exchange  proved — then  are 
clouds  of  metaphysics  generated  ;  then  is  logic  chop- 
ped ;  then  is  black  letter  read,  and  the  "  Revolt  of 
Islam"  attempted — then  do  they  that  write  Histories 
of  the  World,  and  they  that  read  them,  make  large 
advances  "  into  the  bowels  of  the  land." 


304  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

Then,  too,  metbinks,  better  tban  wben  every  tbing 
is  dry,  bright,  and  rampant,  beneath  the  sun's  "  flar- 
ing beams,"  may  the  deep-revolving  poet  "  build  the 
lofty  rhyme."  Was  it  of  a  gadding,  sunshiny  day, 
think  you,  when  the  world  and  his  wife  were  abroad, 
and  all  creatures  prated,  that  Dan  Homer 

Heard  the  Iliad  and  the  Odyssey 


Rise  to  the  swelhng  of  the  voiceful  sea  ? " 

No,  James  ;  be  assured,  't  is  to  rainy  days  we  owe 
the  conception  of  most  good  and  great  thinkings,  say- 
ings and  doings.  A  man  is  commonly  alone,  when  he 
is  great — alone,  when  he  studies  hard— alone,  when  he 
discovers,  invents — alone,  when  his  spirit  plumes  her- 
self, and  soars  on  the  wings  of  vast  aspiration — alone, 
when  he  communes  with  God.  Therefore,  James, 
accept  the  early  and  the  latter  rain,  as  kind  signals  to 
retire  and  be  alone.  We  have  men  of  action  enow, 
James — exhibitors  enow — forwarders  of  movements — 
stirrers  up — talkers — men  who  lead  lives  of  speaking 
and  being  spoken  to — men,  whose  pocket-minds  are 
furnished  with  nothing;  but  a  mere  circulating  medium 
— enough  and  more  than  enough  of  them  all  !  We 
want  meditators — devotees — still-thinkers — rainy-day 
men.  So  did  the  Persians  and  Assyrians,  of  old. 
Their  history  is  a  long  track  of  darkness.  But,  from 
Hebrew  and  Greek  historians,  we  learn  that  they 
were  powers  of  great  duration,  made  immense  con- 
quests, and  reared  hundreds  of  magnificent  cities. 
They  abounded,  therefore,  in  the  active,  ambitious 
and  bold.     Yet  have  the  mighty  empires  of  Babylon 


RAIN.  305 

and  Persia  left  behind  them  absolutely  nothing  for 
the  benefit  of  mankind — not  a  precept  or  a  truth — not 
a  monument  of  grandeur — and  no  other  trace  of  their 
capital  than  three  heaps  of  bricks  and  clay  on  the 
banks  of  the  Euphrates. 

Gracious  Rain  !  how  long  wilt  thou  vouchsafe  thy- 
self to  us,  thankless  groundlings  ?  Wilt  thou  never 
tire,  serviceable  priestess,  of  thy  great  lustrations  ? 
From  a  thousand  mountain-torrents,  and  emerald 
meads,  and  imperial  rivers — from  those  pleasant  homes 
of  thine,  the  great  lakes  of  the  wilderness — from  thy 
palace  of  Ocean — painfully  art  thou  ever  ascending — 
suffering  the  intolerable  sun-stroke,  and  expanding  to 
bodiless  vapor  that  thou  mayst  climb  the  air,  and 
re-gather  thy  weary  atoms — not  to  sail  off,  in  thy 
gorgeous  cloud-squadron,  to  a  better  world,  or  to  live 
in  soft  dalliance  forever  with  the  blue  heaven  and  the 
silver  star — but  to  hang  anxiously  over  our  unworthy 
heads,  and  descend  seasonably  upon  city  or  field, 
without  a  murmur  from  thy  hard-earned  elevation. 
Ay  I  and  during  that  aerial  watch  of  thine,  heavenly 
benefactress  !  while  thou  art  waiting  to  be  gracious — 
tempering  the  meridian  and  unutterably  decorating 
sunset  and  the  dawn — art  thou  not  exposed  to  the 
rude  and  wanton  winds,  who  rend  thy  skirts,  and 
hurry  thee  shivering  about  the  inhospitable  skies,? 
And  dost  thou  not  entertain,  perforce,  the  lightning — 
fearful  guest ! — deafened  with  his  monstrous  music, 
the  thunder-peal,  and  scorched  and  riven  with  his 
fierce  love  ?  Yet  wherefore  that  toilsome  ascent — 
that  dread  sojourn — but  to  descend  at  last,  purified 
26* 


306  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

by  the  sublime  ordeal,  in  beneficent  cadence,  upon 
an  oft  ungrateful  world  ?  Oh  !  our  offence  is  rank  ? 
One  heart,  at  least,  hereafter  shall  humbly  and  thank- 
fully welcome  thee,  whenever  thou  fallest,  "  sweet 
rain  from  heaven,  upon  the  place  beneath."  Whether 
in  the  genial  infusion  of  thy  fitful  April  favors,  or  in 
the  copious  and  renovating  magnificence  of  the  sum- 
mer shower,  or  under  thy  heavy  equinoctial  dominion, 
or  in  the  loud,  black  storm — wintry  or  autumnal  ; 
welcome — ever  welcome — in  all  thy  seasons  and  in 
all  thy  moods  ! 

For  in  none,  fair  minister,  art  thou  not  benignant ; 
in  the  least  amiable  of  them,  most  singularly  dost 
thou  deserve  our  love.  Well  would  it  please  thee, 
doubtless,  to  usher  in  perpetual  May-mornings  with  a 
soft  suffusion — to  fall  never  but  when  fanned  by 
zephyrs  and  the  sweet  south-west — or  from  the 
breathless  skies  of  June,  when  a  verdant  world  pants 
for  thy  bountiful  down-coming  !  And  do  we  upbraid 
thee,  in  our  heartless  stupidity,  because,  rather  than 
withhold  thy  life-giving  dispensations,  thou  ally  est  thy 
gentle  nature  with  thy  opposites,  and  comest  in  un- 
welcome company — in  chilly  league  with  Eurus,  or 
riding  on  the  stormy  wings  of  night-confounding 
Aquilo — subduing  him  to  thy  soft  purpose,  and  charm- 
ing away  his  rage — daring  all  things,  so  thou  mayst 
reach  and  nourish  the  bosom  of  thine  ancient  Mother? 
Pious  child — dear  invader — forgive  us  ! 


THE  ISLAND. 


By  R.  H.  Dana. 


The  island  lies  nine  leagues  away  ; 

Along  its  solitary  shore 
Of  craggy  rock  and  sandy  bay, 
No  sound  but  ocean's  roar, 
Save  where  the  bold,  wild  sea-bird  makes  her  home, 
Her  shrill  cry  coming  through  the  sparkling  foam. 

But  when  the  light  winds  lie  at  rest, 

And  on  the  glassy,  heaving  sea, 
The  black  duck,  with  her  glossy  breast, 
Sits  swinging  silently  ; 
How  beautiful  !  no  ripples  break  the  reach. 
And  silvery  waves  go  noiseless  up  the  beach. 

And  inland  rests  the  green,  warm  dell ; 

The  brook  comes  tinkling  down  its  side ; 
From  out  the  trees  the  Sabbath  bell 
Rings  cheerful  far  and  wide. 
Mingling  its  sound  with  bleatings  of  the  flocks 
That  feed  about  the  vale  among  the  rocks. 


308  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Nor  holy  bell,  nor  pastoral  bleat 

In  former  days  within  the  vale ;  j 

Flapped  in  the  bay  the  pirate's  sheet,  i 

Curses  were  on  the  gale  ;  I 

Rich  goods  lay  on  the  sand,  and  murdered  men  ;  I 

Pirate  and  wrecker  kept  their  revels  then.  | 

But  calm,  low  voices,  words  of  grace,  ' 

Now  slowly  fall  upon  the  ear  ; 
A  quiet  look  is  in  each  face. 

Subdued  and  holy  fear  ; 
Each  motion  gentle  ;  all  is  kindly  done. 


CHURCH-YARD   SKETCHES. 

By  B.  B.  Thatcher. 

I  REMEMBER  a  spot  among  the  Cumberland  hills 
that  might  have  inspired  a  poet.  It  was  the  little 
chm'ch  and  church-yard  of  Borrowdale; — the  small- 
est building  of  its  class  in  England,  it  is  stated.  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  who  lives  in  the  neighborhood,  said  it 
was  "  no  bigger  than  a  cottage,"  and  thus,  indeed,  it 
seemed,  when,  at  the  end  of  a  long  ramble,  I  found  it 
so  nestled  away  in  the  niche  of  a  hill-side,  so  buried 
and  wrapped  in  shade  and  solitude,  that  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  realize  how  even  the  narrow  space  within  its 
walls  should  ever  be  filled  by  human  worshippers. 
Another  such  picture  the  pedestrian  may  have  to 
think  of,  who,  sauntering  along  the  hedge-lined  by- 
ways of  the  lovely  Isle  of  Wight,  suddenly  stays  his 
steps,  unconsciously,  to  gaze  over  into  the  sweet,  small 
garden  of  graves  clustering  all  round  the  humble  but 
exquisite  Church  of  St.  Lawrence  ;  some  of  them,  on 
the  upper  side  of  the  mountain  slope,  nearly  as  high 
as  the  moss-grown  roof  of  the  building,  over  which 
one  sees,  from  the  road-side,  a  glimpse  of  the  lonely 
sea,  spread  out  at  the  base  of  the  mountain.  Nothing 
can  exceed  the  beauty  of  the  proportions  of  this  an- 


310  ^^^  BOSTON  BOOK. 

cient  edifice,  minialural  as  it  is.  The  slope  of  the 
bill  It  is  set  on,  is  so  steep  that  the  road  just  mentioned, 
is  cut  into  It  like  a  groove.  On  the  upper  side,  a  cliff 
towers  up  over  one's  head,  almost  perpendicularly, 
some  hundred  feet,  yet  every  where,  from  the  moisture 
of  the  climate,  and  the  richness  of  the  soil  that  still 
clings  to  the  rocks,  mantled  with  a  soft,  silky  robe  of 
the  sweetest  verdure  the  eye  ever  saw,  brightly 
spotted  with  clusters  of  flowers,  and  small  shrubs 
flourishing  out  from  the  crevices,  and  sometimes 
laden  with  vines.  Below  the  church,  the  scene 
grows  wilder.  The  hill-side  shows,  far  up  from  the 
water-mark,  traces  of  the  fierce  power  of  the  element 
which  sleeps  now  so  quietly  at  its  feet.  Huge  sea- 
stained  points  of  crags  peer  out  grimly  on  every  side  ; 
the  vegetation  Is  withered,  and  disappears,  as  we 
wind  farther  down  by  the  dizzy  foot-path  the  egg- 
hunters  have  trodden  ;  and  now  breaks  out  upon  us, 
in  its  full  volume,  that  terrible  thunder  of  the  surge  of 
even  these  slumbering  waves.  But  it  is  a  thunder 
that  comes  only  in  mellowed  music  to  him  who  saun- 
ters, as  I  did,  in  the  noiseless  avenues  of  the  little 
sanctuary  in  the  niche  of  the  hill-side  above.  Many 
a  time  I  stayed  my  steps  to  listen  to  this  murmur,  as 
borne  on  the  gusts  of  the  "  sweet  sea  air,  sweet  and 
strange,"  it  swelled  and  fell  at  intervals,  like  spirit- 
voices  whispering  to  those  who  lay  beneath.  No  ! 
not  to  them.  Theirs  Is  the  "  dull,  cold  ear "  that 
will  not  hear.  To  me,  to  all  who  visit  this  blessed 
temple,  this  sacred  ground,  to  us,  to  us  they  speak. 


CHURCH- YARD  SKETCHES.        3X1 

They  tell  us  of  the  history  below  us,  and  of  the  des- 
tiny before.  They  mind  us  well  of  the  life  we  are 
living  ;  ah  !  better  still  of  that  we  have  not  lived, 
where  there  is  no  more  '^  moaning  of  the  sea^ 

It  was  in  this  grave-yard  I  noticed  a  humble  heap 
piled  over  the  remains  of  one  whose  annals,  as  the 
modest  marble  at  its  head  recorded  them,  touched  my 
heart.  It  was  a  young,  beautiful  girl.  Slie  came  to 
this  neighborhood,  I  think,  from  Wales,  probably  for 
the  restoration  of  health.  But  alas !  nor  herb,  nor 
sea  air,  nor  care  of  relative  or  friend,  could  save  her ; 
no,  not  the  yearning  tenderness  or  breaking  heart  of 
him  who  loved  her  best,  and  who  weeps  now  over 
the  untimely  tale  I  read.  To  him  she  had  been  long 
betrothed,  and  trusting  still  that  dear  deceiving  hope 
which  never  leaves  us,  and  which  the  poor  perishing 
consumptive  and  her  kindred  cling  to  so  fondly,  till 
life's  light  goes  quite  out — in  this  hope  the  marriage 
day  was  appointed.  Preparations,  even,  were  made 
for  it.  On  that  day  she  died,  and  here  she  is 
buried,  as  in  her  last  murmurs  she  asked  that  she 
miofht  be — in  her  bridal  dress  !  Peace  be  to  her 
ashes — she  ''  sleeps  well "  in  the  grave-yard  of  St. 
Lawrence  ! 

Not  very  far,  but  very  different  from  this,  is  the 
yard  of  the  gray  old  church  of  Chale,  which  stands 
in  the  immediate  neighborhood  of  a  tremendous  pre- 
cipice, on  the  brink  of  the  sea,  called  Blackgang 
Chine.     Deep  under  this  awful  barrier  a  small,  snug 


312  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

cove  runs  in,  making  what  the  islanders  entitle  Chale 
Bay  ;  in  itself  a  wild  and  yet  pleasing  and  generally 
t.'^nquil  spot,  bordered  by  a  curved  beach  of  shining 
sand,  and  enlivened  by  tiny  streamlets  of  water,  trick- 
ling from  the  verge  of  the  huge  rocks  above.  A  man 
who  hated  his  own  race,  but  yet  loved  nature,  would 
choose  a  nook  at  the  base  of  the  Chine  for  his  dwell- 
ing. No  stranger,  at  least,  would  disturb  him  ;  for  if 
he  did  not  pass  by  the  edge  of  the  cliff,  in  the  way- 
side, as  he  probably  would,  without  knowing  it,  he 
would  shudder  and  start  back  from  the  sight : — there 
is  something  threatening,  appalling,  in  the  lonely  sub- 
limity, and  even  in  the  intense,  strange  solitude  of  the 
place.  But  ah !  if  he  knew,  as  I  do,  its  history  ! 
Four  times,  if  not  more,  since  my  brief  acquaintance 
with  this  charming  Island  began,  have  gallant  ships 
gone  down,  in  storm  and  surge,  in  this  fatal  cove. 

I  learned  the  history  of  one  of  these  hapless  com- 
panies from  the  marbles  of  the  church-yard  of  Chale. 
There  they  were  buried,  with  the  sad  solemnities 
suited  to  such  an  occasion,  and  with  all  the  tenderness 
needed  to  soothe  their  hearts  who  were  watching  now 
so  eagerly  for  the  return  of  a  long-expected  ship. 
What  a  picture  of  human  life,  what  a  passage  of  hu- 
man history  it  is  !  "  Sermons,"  indeed,  "  in  stones!" 
Six  of  the  passengers  were  of  one  affectionate  family  ; 
a  gallant  naval  officer,  coming  home  from  a  long  ser- 
vice, with  his  wife,  a  babe,  and  three  elder  and  beau- 
tiful daughters.  The  brother  of  this  lady  had  been 
expecting  them  daily.     He  was  one  of  the  first  on  the 


CHURCH-YARD  SKETCHES.        313 

Island  to  be  informed  of  their  coming — and  of  how 
they  had  come ; — and  to  behold  a  spectacle  which  I 
will  not  describe.  Let  us  hasten  from  the  church- 
yard of  Chale.     The  name  is  a  knell  in  my  memory. 

A  glance  at  the  burial-place  of  the  United  Breth- 
ren near  Ballymena  in  Ireland,  may  be  a  relief  to  the 
reader.  It  is  another  of  the  spots  one  would  choose 
for  his  bones  to  lie  in  ; — for,  say  what  we  will,  there 
is  a  choice,  and  the  thought  of  it  is  no  indifferent 
matter  to  us  while  alive,  however  little  the  fact  itself 
may  concern  us  or  others  in  future  time.  The  Mora- 
vians believe  so,  at  least.  They  appreciate,  justly 
too,  the  moral  influence,  the  religious  science,  of  a 
grave-yard.  They  do  not  deem  it  either  decent  to 
leave  it  neglected,  or  necessary  to  make  it  frightful. 
The  little  village,  which  I  visited  one  Sabbath  morn- 
ing, is  embosomed  in  trees,  and  surrounded  with  the 
famed  emerald  verdure  of  the  country  on  every  side ; 
— divided  into  a  small,  harmonious  arrangement  of 
shaded  streets,  that,  but  for  the  neat  rows  of  cottages, 
and  regular  beds  of  flowers  on  either  hand,  look  more 
like  natural  lanes  ; — "remote  from  cities,"  in  a  word  ; 
— serene,  peaceful,  beautiful  as  a  "thought  of  Para- 
dise." 1  attended  service  in  the  little  church,  and 
afterwards  walked  through  the  grave-yard  which  lies 
on  the  table-land  of  a  gentle  green  swell  behind  it, 
skirted  with  flourishing  and  flowery  hedges,  and  spot- 
ted over,  in  hollow  and  heap,  with  checks  of  a  mellow 
September  sunshine,  sifted  though  branches  of  leaning 
trees. 

27 


TO  FANNI  IN   A  BALL   DRESS. 


By  John  Everett. 

Thou  hast  braided  thy  dark  flowing  hair, 
And  wreathed  it  with  rose-buds  and  pearls  ; 

But  dearer,  neglected  thy  sweet  tresses  are, 
Soft  falling  in  natural  curls. 

Thou  delightest  the  cold  world's  gaze. 

When  crowned  with  the  flower  and  the  gem, 

But  thy  lover's  smile  should  be  dearer  praise, 
Than  the  incense  thou  prizest  from  them. 

The  bloom  on  thy  young  cheek  is  bright, 

With  triumph  enjoyed  too  well, 
Yet  less  dear  than  when  soft  as  the  moonbeam's  light, 

Or  the  tinge  in  a  hyacinth  bell. 

And  gay  is  the  playful  tone, 

As  to  flattery's  voice  thou  respondest ; 

But  what  is  the  praise  of  the  cold  and  unknown 
To  the  tender  blame  of  the  fondest  ? 


OFFICES  OF   EDUCATION. 

By  Horace  Mann. 

Education  is  to  inspire  the  love  of  truth,  as  the 
supremest  good,  and  to  clarify  the  vision  of  the  intel- 
lect to  discern  it.  We  want  a  generation  of  men 
above  deciding  great  and  eternal  principles,  upon 
narrow  and  selfish  grounds.  Our  advanced  state  of 
civilization  has  evolved  many  complicated  questions 
respecting  social  duties.  We  want  a  generation  of 
men  capable  of  taking  up  these  complex  questions, 
and  of  turning  all  sides  of  them  towards  the  sun,  and 
of  examining  them  by  the  white  light  of  reason,  and 
not  under  the  false  colors  which  sophistry  may  throw 
upon  them.  We  want  no  men  who  will  change,  like 
the  vanes  of  our  steeples,  with  the  course  of  the 
popular  wind  ;  but  we  want  men  who,  like  mountains, 
will  change  the  course  of  the  wind.  We  want  no 
more  of  those  patriots  who  exhaust  their  patriotism,  in 
lauding  the  past  ;  but  we  want  patriots  who  will  do 
for  the  future  what  the  past  has  done  for  us.  We 
want  men  capable  of  deciding,  not  merely  what  is 
right,  in  principle — that  is  often  the  smallest  part  of 
the  case  ;  but  we  want  men  capable  of  deciding  what 


316  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

is  right  in  means,  to  accomplish  what  is  right  in  prin- 
ciple. We  want  men  who  will  speak  to  this  great 
people  in  counsel,  and  not  in  flattery.  We  want  god- 
like men  who  can  tame  the  madness  of  the  times,  and, 
speaking  divine  words  in  a  divine  spirit,  can  say  to  the 
raging  of  human  passions,  "  Peace,  be  still ; "  and 
usher  in  the  calm  of  enlightened  reason  and  con- 
science. Look  at  our  community,  divided  into  so 
many  parties  and  factions,  and  these  again  subdivided, 
on  all  questions  of  social,  national,  and  international 
duty  ; — while,  over  all  stands,  almost  unheeded,  the 
sublime  form  of  Truth,  eternally  and  indissolubly 
One  !  Nay,  further,  those  do  not  agree  in  thought 
who  agree  in  words.  Their  unanimity  is  a  delusion. 
It  arises  from  the  imperfection  of  language.  Could 
men,  who  subscribe  to  the  same  forms  of  words,  but 
look  into  each  other's  minds,  and  see,  there,  what 
features  their  own  idolized  doctrines  wear,  friends 
would  often  start  back  from  the  friends  they  have 
loved,  with  as  much  abhorrence  as  from  the  enemies 
they  have  persecuted.  Now,  what  can  save  us  from 
endless  contention,  but  the  love  of  truth  ?  What  can 
save  us,  and  our  children  after  us,  from  eternal,  im- 
placable, universal  war,  but  the  greatest  of  all  human 
powers — the  power  of  impartial  thought  ?  Many — 
may  I  not  say  most — of  those  great  questions,  which 
make  the  present  age  boil  and  seethe,  like  a  cauldron, 
will  never  be  settled,  until  we  have  a  generation  of 
men  who  were  educated,  from  childhood,  to  seek  for 
truth  and  to  revere  justice.     In  the  middle  of  the  last 


OFFICES  OF  EDUCATION.  3X7 

centLiryj  a  great  dispute  arose  among  astronomers, 
respecting  one  of  the  planets.  Some,  in  their  folly, 
commenced,  a  war  of  words,  and  wrote  hot  books 
against  each  other ;  others,  in  their  wisdom,  improved 
their  telescopes,  and  soon  settled  the  question  forever. 
Education  should  imitate  the  latter.  If  there  are 
momentous  questions  which,  with  present  lights,  we 
cannot  demonstrate  and  determine,  let  us  rear  up 
stronger,  and  purer,  and  more  impartial  minds,  for 
the  solemn  arbitrament.  Let  it  be  forever  and  ever 
inculcated,  that  no  bodily  wounds  or  maim,  no  defor- 
mity of  person,  nor  disease  of  brain,  or  lungs,  or 
heart,  can  be  so  disabling  or  so  painful,  as  error ;  and 
that  he  who  heals  us  of  our  prejudices,  is  a  thousand 
fold  more  our  benefactor,  than  he  who  heals  us  of 
mortal  maladies.  Teach  children,  if  you  will,  to 
beware  of  the  bite  of  a  mad  dog ;  but  teach  them 
still  more  faithfully,  that  no  horror  of  water  is  so  fatal 
as  a  horror  of  truth,  because  it  does  not  come  from 
our  leader  or  our  party.  Then  shall  we  have  more 
men  who  will  think,  as  it  were,  under  oath  ; — not 
thousandth  and  ten  thousandth  transmitters  of  falsity  ; 
— not  copyists  of  copyists,  and  blind  followers  of 
blind  followers  ;  but  men  who  can  track  the  Deity 
in  his  ways  of  wisdom.  A  love  of  truth — a  love  of 
truth;  this  is  the  pool  of  a  moral  Bethesda,  whose 
waters  have  miraculous  healing.  And  though  we 
lament  that  we  cannot  bequeath  to  posterity  this  pre- 
cious boon,  in  its  perfectness,  as  the  greatest  of  all 
patrimonies,  yet  let  us  rejoice  that  we  can  inspire  a 
27  » 


318  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

love  of  It,  a  reverence  for  it,  a  devotion  to  It ;  and 
thus  circumscribe  and  weaken  whatever  is  wrong,  and 
enlarge  and  strengthen  whatever  is  right,  in  that  mixed 
inheritance  of  good  and  evil,  which,  in  the  order  of 
Providence,  one  generation  transmits  to  another. 

If  we  contemplate  the  subject  with  the  eye  of  a 
statesman,  what  resources  are  there.  In  the  whole 
domain  of  Nature,  at  all  comparable  to  that  vast 
influx  of  power  which  comes  into  the  world  with  every 
Incoming  generation  of  children  ?  Each  embryo  life 
is  more  wonderful  than  the  globe  it  is  sent  to  inhabit, 
and  more  glorious  than  the  sun  upon  which  it  first 
opens  its  eyes.  Each  one  of  these  mllHons,  with  a 
fitting  education,  is  capable  of  adding  something  to 
the  sum  of  human  happiness,  and  of  subtracting 
something  from  the  sum  of  human  misery;  and  many 
great  souls  amongst  them  there  are,  who  may  become 
instruments  for  turning  the  course  of  nations,  as  the 
rivers  of  water  are  turned.  It  is  the  duty  of  moral  and 
religious  education,  to  employ  and  administer  all  these 
capacities  of  good,  for  lofty  purposes  of  human  benefi- 
cence— as  a  wise  minister  employs  the  resources  of  a 
great  empire.  ''  Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto 
me,"  said  the  Saviour,  "  and  forbid  them  not,  for  of 
such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  And  who  shall 
dare  say,  that  philanthropy  and  religion  cannot  make 
a  better  world  than  the  present,  from  beings  like 
those  in  the  kingdom  of  heaven  ! 

Education  must  be  universal.     It  is  well,  when  the 
wise  and  the  learned  discover  new  truths  ;  but  how 


OFFICES  OF  EDUCATION.  3 19 

much  better  to  diffuse  the  truths  already  discovered, 
amongst  the  multitude !  Every  addition  to  true 
knowledge  is  an  addition  to  human  power  ;  and  while 
a  philosopher  is  discovering  one  new  truth,  millions 
may  be  propagated  amongst  the  people.  Diffusion, 
then,  rather  than  discovery,  is  the  duty  of  our  govern- 
ment. With  us,  the  qualification  of  voters  is  as  impor- 
tant as  the  qualification  of  governors,  and  even  comes 
first,  in  the  natural  order.  Yet  there  is  no  Sabbath  of 
rest,  in  our  contests  about  the  latter,  while  so  little  is 
done  to  qualify  the  former.  The  theory  of  our  gov- 
ernment is — not  that  all  men,  however  unfit,  shall  be 
voters — but  that  every  man,  by  the  power  of  reason 
and  the  sense  of  duty,  shall  become  fit  to  be  a  voter. 
Education  must  bring  the  practice  as  nearly  as  possible 
to  the  theory.  As  the  children  now  are,  so  will  the 
sovereigns  soon  be.  How  can  we  expect  the  fabric 
of  the  government  to  stand,  if  vicious  materials  are 
daily  wrought  into  its  frame-work  ?  Education  must 
prepare  our  citizens  to  become  municipal  ofhcers, 
intelligent  jurors,  honest  witnesses,  legislators,  or  com- 
petent judges  of  legislation — in  fine,  to  fill  all  the 
manifold  relations  of  life.  For  this  end  it  must  be 
universal.  The  whole  land  must  be  watered  with  the 
streams  of  knowledge.  It  is  not  enough  to  have, 
here  and  there,  a  beautiful  fountain  playing  in  palace 
gardens  ;  but  let  it  come  like  the  abundant  fatness  of 
the  clouds  upon  the  thirsting  earth. 

Finally,  education,  alone,  can  conduct  us  to  that 
enjoyment  which  is,  at  once,  best  in  quality  and  infi- 


320  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

nite  in  quantity.  God  has  revealed  to  us — not  by 
ambiguous  signs,  but  by  his  mighty  works  ; — not  in 
disputable  language  of  human  invention — but  by  the 
solid  substance  and  reality  of  things,  what  he  holds 
to  be  valuable,  and  what  he  regards  as  of  little  ac- 
count. The  latter  he  has  created  sparingly,  as  though 
it  were  nothing  worth  ;  while  the  former  he  has 
poured  forth  with  immeasurable  munificence.  I  sup- 
pose all  the  diamonds  ever  found,  could  be  hid  under 
a  bushel.  The  quantity  is  little,  because  the  value  is 
small.  But  iron  ore — without  which  mankind  would 
always  have  been  barbarians,  without  which  they 
would  now  relapse  into  barbarism — he  has  strowed 
profusely  all  over  the  earth.  Compare  the  scantiness 
of  pearl  with  the  extent  of  forests  and  coal  fields.  Of 
one,  little  has  been  created,  because  it  is  worth  little  ; 
of  the  others,  much,  because  they  are  worth  much. 
His  fountains  of  naphtha,  how  few,  and  myrrh  and 
frankincense,  how  exiguous  ;  but  who  can  fathom  his 
reservoirs  of  water,  or  measure  the  light  and  the  air  ! 
This  principle  pervades  every  realm  of  Nature.  Cre- 
ation seems  to  have  been  projected  upon  the  plan  of 
increasing  the  quantity,  in  the  ratio  of  the  intrinsic 
value.  Emphatically  is  this  plan  manifested,  when 
we  come  to  that  part  of  creation,  we  call  ourselves. 
Enough  of  the  materials  of  worldly  good  have  been 
created  to  answer  this  great  principle — that,  up  to  the 
point  of  competence,  up  to  the  point  of  independence 
and  self-respect,  few  things  are  more  valuable  than 
property  ;  beyond  that  point,  few  things  are  of  less. 


OFFICES  OF  EDUCATION.  321 

And  hence  It  is,  that  all  acquisitions  of  property, 
beyond  that  point — considered  and  used  as  mere  prop- 
erty— confer  an  inferior  sort  of  pleasure,  in  inferior 
quantities.  However  rich  a  man  may  be,  a  certain 
number  of  thicknesses  of  woollens  or  of  silks  is  all  he 
can  comfortably  wear.  Give  him  a  dozen  palaces,  he 
can  live  in  but  one,  at  a  time.  Though  the  com- 
mander be  worth  the  whole  regiment,  or  ship's  com- 
pany, he  can  have  the  animal  pleasure  of  eating  only 
his  own  rations  ;  and  any  other  animal  eats,  with  as 
much  relish  as  he.  Hence  the  wealthiest,  with  all 
their  wealth,  are  driven  back  to  a  cultivated  mind,  to 
beneficent  uses  and  appropriations  ;  and  It  Is  then, 
and  then  only,  that  a  glorious  vista  of  happiness  opens 
out  into  immensity  and  immortality. 

Education,  then,  is  to  show  to  our  youth,  in  early 
life,  this  broad  line  of  demarcation  between  the  value 
of  those  things  which  can  be  owned  and  enjoyed  by 
but  one,  and  those  which  can  be  owned  and  enjoyed 
by  all.  If  I  own  a  ship,  a  house,  a  farm,  or  a  mass 
of  the  metals  called  precious,  my  right  to  them  Is,  in 
its  nature,  sole  and  exclusive.  No  other  man  has  a 
right  to  trade  with  my  ship,  to  occupy  my  house,  to 
gather  my  harvests,  or  to  appropriate  my  treasures 
to  his  use.  They  are  mine,  and  are  incapable, 
both  of  a  sole  and  of  a  joint  possession.  But  not  so 
of  the  treasures  of  knowledge,  which  It  Is  the  duty 
of  education  to  diffuse.  The  same  truth  may  enrich 
and  ennoble  all  intelligences  at  once.  Infinite  diffu- 
sion subtracts  nothing  from  depth.     None  are  made 


322  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

poor  because  others  are  made  rich.  In  this  part  of 
the  Divine  economy,  the  privilege  of  primogeniture 
attaches  to  all ;  and  every  son  and  daughter  of  Adam 
is  heir  to  an  infinite  patrimony.  If  I  own  an  exquisite 
picture  or  statue,  it  is  mine,  exclusively.  Even 
though  publicly  exhibited,  but  few  could  be  charmed 
by  its  beauties,  at  the  same  time.  It  is  incapable  of 
bestowing  a  pleasure,  simultaneous  and  universal. 
But  not  so  of  the  beauty  of  a  moral  sentiment ;  not  so 
of  the  glow  of  sublime  emotions  ;  not  so  of  the  feel- 
ings of  conscious  purity  and  rectitude.  These  may 
shed  rapture  upon  all,  without  deprivation  of  any  ;  be 
imparted,  and  still  possessed  ;  transferred  to  millions, 
yet  never  surrendered  ;  carried  out  of  the  world,  and 
still  left  in  it.  These  may  imparadise  mankind,  and, 
undiluted,  unattenuated,  be  sent  round  the  whole  orb 
of  being.  Let  education,  then,  teach  children  this 
great  truth,  written,  as  it  is,  on  the  fore  front  of  the 
universe,  that  God  has  so  constituted  this  world,  into 
which  he  has  sent  them,  that  whatever  is  really  and 
truly  valuable  may  be  possessed  by  all,  and  possessed 
in  exhaustless  abundance. 


A  PSALM   OF  LIFE. 


WHAT   THE   HEART   OF    THE    YOUNG    MAN    SAID    TO    THE   PSALMIST. 


By  Henry  W.  Longfellow. 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream  ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !    Life  is  earnest ! 

And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 
Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest. 

Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, 

Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 
But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 

Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  time  is  fleeting,     - 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 


324  '^^^  BOSTON  BOOK. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 
In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 

Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 
Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act, — act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime. 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footsteps  on  the  sands  of  time ; 

Footsteps,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother. 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 
With  a  heart  for  any  fate  ; 

Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 
Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 


SKETCHES  OF   CANTON. 

By  Howard  Malcom. 

In  all  other  parts  of  the  East,  Europeans  bear  them- 
selves so  haughtily  before  the  natives,  and  so  trans- 
cend them  in  wealth,  luxury,  and  intellect,  that  the 
contrast  at  Canton  is  most  striking.  Here  are  gene- 
rally about  three  hundred  foreigners,  permanently 
resident,  and  often  more,  kept  so  completely  under, 
that  they  may  neither  bring  their  wives,  nor  take 
native  ladies,  nor  build,  buy,  ride,  row,  or  walk,  with- 
out restrictions  ,-  wholly  forbidden  to  enter  the  gates 
of  the  city,  and  cooped  up  in  a  spot  w^hich  would  be 
considered  in  Calcutta  or  Madras  barely  large  enough 
for  one  good  dwelling  and  compound.  The  foreign 
factories,  or  hongs',  are  thirteen  in  nun:^ber,  under  the 
names  of  different  nations,  but  occupied  somewhat 
promiscuously  by  the  merchants  and  shopkeepers. 
They  form  a  close  front  along  the  river,  about  three 
hundred  yards  in  length,  with  an  open  space  toward 
the  water,  which  is  here  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
wide.  The  buildings  extend  toward  the  rear  about 
two  hundred  yards.  Each  hong  is  divided  into 
several  separate  portions,  entered  by  a  narrow  alley, 
28 


326  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

which  passes  through  to  the  rear,  and  is  thus  made  to 
consist  of  five  or  six  tenements,  generally  three  stones 
high.  The  heat,  smoke,  noise,  and  dreariness  of  the 
interior  of  this  mass  of  buildings,  with  the  total 
absence  of  female  society,  gives  it,  in  no  small  degree, 
the  aspect  of  a  prison.  The  front  rooms,  however, 
are  pleasant,  and  some  of  them  have  fine  promenades 
on  the  roof.  An  open  space  in  front,  about  one 
hundred  yards  long  and  fifty  wide,  serves  both  as  a 
wharf  and  a  promenade.  But  the  first  of  these  uses 
obstructs  it  for  the  other ;  to  say  nothing  of  barbers, 
cooks,  pedlers,  clothes-menders,  coolies,  and  boatmen, 
who  crowd  it  most  of  the  day. 

Fortunately  for  me,  there  existed,  during  my  stay  in 
Canton,  no  particular  jealousy  of  foreigners.  Accom- 
panying the  missionaries  and  other  gentlemen  in  their 
daily  walks  for  exercise,  I  was  enabled  to  ramble  not 
onlv  over  all  the  suburbs,  but  amon^^  the  villaf];es  and 
fields  adjacent.  We  were  not  specially  ill  treated  ; 
but  I  have  nowhere  else  found  quite  so  much  scorn 
and  rudeness.  Nearly  all  the  time,  some  of  the 
youngsters  would  be  calling  out,  as  we  passed,  "  For- 
eign devils  !  "  "  barbarians  !  "  "  red-bristled  devils ! " 
often  adding  obscene  expressions,  and  sometimes 
throwing  light  missiles  ;  all  which  the  parents  seemed 
to  think  very  clever.  Often,  indeed,  they  would 
direct  the  attention  of  very  small  children  to  us,  and 
teach  them  to  rail.  Our  clerical  profession  seemed 
known  to  many  ;  and  these  would  shout,  ^'  Story- 
telling devils !  "  "  lie-preaching  devils !  "     In  streets 


SKETCHES  OF  CANTON.  327 

much  frequented  by  foreigners,  these  things  rarely 
occurred  ;  but  in  others,  we  attracted  general  atten- 
tion ;  and  if  we  stopped  for  a  few  moments,  a  crowd 
would  immediately  choke  up  the  street. 

The  width  of  the  streets  is  seldom  more  than  four  or 
five  feet,  and  often  less.  The  houses  rarely  exceed 
one  story  high  ;  and,  except  on  business  streets,  all 
the  better  ones  are  invisible,  being  built,  like  those  of 
Paris,  within  a  walled  enclosure.  The  streets  are  all 
flagged  with  large  slabs  of  smooth  stone,  principally 
granite.  The  breadth  excludes  wheel  carriages,  of 
course,  and  the  only  vehicles  are  sedan  chairs,  which 
are  constantly  gliding  along  at  a  very  rapid  rate  ; 
those  for  ladies  being  closed  with  blinds,  or  gauze, 
but  not  so  as  to  prevent  the  occupant  from  looking 
through.  As  these  chairs,  or  loaded  coolies,  come 
rushing  along,  a  perpetual  shouting  is  kept  up,  to 
clear  the  way  ;  and,  unless  you  jump  to  the  W'all  or 
into  a  shop,  you  are  rudely  jostled  ;  for,  though  they 
are  polite  and  kind,  their  headway  and  heavy  burden 
render  it  impossible  to  make  sudden  pauses.  As  to 
walking  arm  in  arm,  it  is  quite  out  of  the  question.  I 
saw  none  of  the  unbroken  ranges  of  piazza  spoken  of 
by  geographers  ;  but  in  some  places,  rnats  are  spread 
across  the  street,  which  exclude  the  sun.  The  end 
of  each  street  has  a  strong  gate,  which  is  shut  up  at 
night ;  chiefly  for  security  against  thieves. 

The  shops  are  often  truly  beautiful ;  but  the  greater 
number  are  occupied  as  well  by  the  workmen  as  the 
wares.     Such  minute  subdivision  of  callinirs  I  have 


328  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

seen  nowhere  else.  Not  only  are  trades  subdivided 
into  the  most  minute  branches,  but  the  shops  are  often 
limited  to  one  or  two  species  of  goods.  Some  of 
those  which  I  entered  would  vie  with  those  of  Lon- 
don, for  style  and  amount  of  capital  invested.  In 
each,  the  idol  has  a  handsome  and  conspicuous  situa- 
tion. As  Chinese  is  read  perpendicularly,  the  sign- 
boards are  suspended  downward,  and  are  thus  well 
adapted  to  narrow  streets.  They  are  generally  beau- 
tifully executed,  and  often,  after  announcing  the  name 
and  occupation,  close  with  sage  sentences  ;  such  as, 
"  Gossipping  and  long  silting  injure  business;"  "  No 
credit  given  ;  former  customers  have  inspired  caution." 


A  tolerable  idea  of  Chinese  geography  may  be 
gathered  from  a  glance  at  their  maps.  Mr.  GutzlafF 
was  kind  enough  to  present  me  with  one  of  the  world, 
and  to  translate  many  of  the  names.  It  is  two  feet 
v.'ide  by  three  and  a  half  high,  and  is  almost  covered 
with  China  !  In  the  left  hand  corner,  at  the  top,  is  a 
sea  three  inches  square,  in  which  are  delineated,  as 
small  islands,  Europe,  England,  France,  Holland, 
Portugal,  and  Africa.  Holland  is  as  lari];e  as  all  the 
rest,  and  Africa  is  not  so  big  as  the  end  of  one's  little 
finger  !    The  northern  frontier  is  Russia,  very  large. 

The  left  corner,  at  the  bottom,  is  occupied  by  the 
"  western  ocean,"  as  it  is  called,  containing  the 
Malay  peninsula,  pretty  w^ell  defined.  Along  the 
bottom  are  Camboja,  Cochin-China,  &c.,  represented 


SKETCHES  OF  CANTON.  339 

as  moderate-sized  islands ;  and  on  the  right  is  For- 
mosa, larger  than  all  the  rest  put  together.  Various 
other  countries  are  shown  as  small  islands,  I  should 
have  given  an  engraving  of  this  curious  map,  but  that  a 
true  reduction  to  the  size  of  a  page  would  have  left  out 
most  of  these  countries  altogether  !  The  surroundino^ 
ocean  is  represented  in  huge  waves,  with  smooth  pas- 
sages, or  highways,  branching  off  to  the  different 
countries,  or  islands,  as  they  represent  them.  They 
suppose  that  ships  which  keep  along  these  highways, 
go  safely  ;  but  if  they,  through  ignorance  or  stress  of 
weather,  diverge,  they  soon  get  among  these  awful 
billows,  and  are  lost ! 


It  is  so  unpopular  to  be  famihar  with  foreigners, 
that  an  opportunity  of  visiting  the  private  houses  of 
respectable  Chinese  is  rarely  enjoyed,  by  transient 
sojourners  in  Canton.  One  of  the  principal  hong 
merchants,  being  particularly  indebted  to  Dr.  Parker, 
for  removing  a  polypus,  and  at  the  same  time  a  man 
of  uncommon  independence,  I  was  glad  to  embrace  a 
proposal  to  visit  him.  Dr.  P.  having  announced  our 
desire,  we  received  a  very  cordial  invitation.  The 
house  stands  in  a  crowded  suburb  ;  nothing  being 
visible  from  the  street,  but  a  wall  of  the  ordinary 
height.  Passing  through  a  vestibule,  attended  by 
porters,  we  were  ushered  into  a  large  and  handsome 
hall,  where  the  old  gentleman  soon  joined  us.  His 
dress  was  negligent,  but  costly,  and  resembled  that  of 
28* 


330  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

the  mandareen  figures  in  our  tea-shops.  He  saluted 
us  in  English,  and  the  conversation  was  so  maintained. 
After  a  little,  he  invited  us  to  see  his  establishment, 
and  kindly  accompanied  us.  I  was  soon  bewildered 
in  passing  through  halls,  rooms,  and  passages  ;  cross- 
ing little  court-yards  and  bridges  ;  now  looking  at 
scores  of  gold-fish  in  a  tank,  and  now  sitting  in  a 
rustic  summer-house  on  the  top  of  an  artificial  cliff; 
now  admiring  whole  beds  of  china  asters  in  full  bloom, 
and  now  engrossed  with  large  aviaries  or  grotesque 
bee-hives.  Here  were  miniature  grottos,  and  there 
were  jets  of  water.  Here  were  stunted  forest-trees 
and  porcelain  beasts,  and  there  was  a  lake  and  a  fancy 
skiff.  Yet  the  whole  was  compressed  into  a  space 
not  larger  than  is  occupied  by  some  mansions  in  the 
middle  of  our  large  cities  ! 

There  was  not  that  quaint  absurdity  about  all  this, 
that  books  and  pictures  had  led  me  to  suppose. 
True,  it  was  exceedingly  artificial,  and  thoroughly 
Chinese  ;  but  there  were  taste  and  beauty  in  it  all. 
Why  should  we  break  down  all  tastes  to  one  standard  ? 
He  that  can  only  be  pleased  in  a  given  way,  is  illy 
fitted  to  travel ;  and  I  am  sure  any  one  not  predeter- 
mined to  contemn,  would  admire  and  enjoy  the 
grounds  of  Tinqua. 


PALESTINE. 

FROM    "airs    of    PALESTINE." 

By  John  Pierpont. 

Where  lies  our  path  ? — Though  many  a  vista  call, 
We  may  admire,  but  cannot  tread  them  all. 
Where  lies  our  path  ? — A  poet,  and  inquire 
What  hills,  what  vales,  what  streams  become  the  lyre  ? 
See,  there  Parnassus  lifts  his  head  of  snow ; 
See  at  his  foot  the  cool  Cephissus  flow ; 
There  Ossa  rises  ;  there  Olympus  towers  ; 
Between  them,  Tempe  breathes  in  beds  of  flowers, 
Forever  verdant;  and  there  Peneus  glides 
Through  laurels,  whispering  on  his  shady  sides. 
Your  theme  is  Music  ; — Yonder  rolls  the  wave, 
Where  dolphins  snatched  Ar ion  from  his  grave. 
Enchanted  by  his  lyre  : — Cithaeron's  shade 
Is  yonder  seen,  where  first  Amphion  played 
Those  potent  airs,  that,  from  the  yielding  earth, 
Charmed  stones  around  him,  and  gave  cities  birth. 
And  fast  by  Hsemus,  Thracian  Hebrus  creeps 
O'er  golden  sands,  and  still  for  Orpheus  weeps, 
Whose  gory  head,  borne  by  the  stream  along. 
Was  still  melodious,  and  expired  in  song. 
There  Nereids  sing,  and  Triton  winds  his  shell ; 
There  be  thy  path — for  there  the  muses  dwell. 


332  THE  BOSTON   BOOK. 

No,  no — a  lonelier,  lovelier  path  be  mine ; 
Greece  and  her  charms  I  leave  for  Palestine. 
There  purer  streams  through  happier  valleys  flow, 
And  sweeter  flowers  on  holier  mountains  blow. 
I  love  to  breathe  where  Gilead  sheds  her  balm ; 
I  love  to  walk  on  Jordan's  banks  of  palm ; 
I  love  to  wet  my  foot  in  Hermon's  dews ; 
I  love  the  promptings  of  Isaiah's  muse  : 
In  Carmel's  holy  grots  I'll  court  repose. 
And  deck  my  mossy  couch  with  Sharon's  deathless  rose. 

Here  arching  vines  their  leafy  banner  spread, 
Shake  their  green  shields,  and  purple  odors  shed. 
At  once  repelling  Syria's  burning  ray. 
And  breathing  freshness  on  the  sultry  day. 
Here  the  wild  bee  suspends  her  murmuring  wing. 
Pants  on  the  rock,  or  sips  the  silver  spring ; 
And  here,  as  musing  on  my  theme  divine, — 
I  gather  flowers  to  bloom  along  my  line, 
And  hang  my  garlands  in  festoons  around, 
Inwreathed  with  clusters,  and  with  tendrils  bound ; 
And  fondly,  warmly,  humbly  hope  the  Power, 
That  gave  perfumes  and  beauty  to  the  flower, 
Drew  living  water  from  this  rocky  shrine, 
Purpled  the  clustering  honors  of  the  vine. 
And  led  me,  lost  in  devious  mazes,  hither. 
To  weave  a  garland,  will  not  let  it  wither  ; — 
Wond'ring,  I  listen  to  the  strain  sublime. 
That  flows,  all  freshly,  down  the  stream  of  time, 
Wafted  in  grand  simplicity  along, 
The  undying  breath,  the  very  soul  of  song. 


CHARACTER  OF  SAMUEL  ADAMS. 

By  William  Tudor. 

Mr.  Adams  was  one  of  that  class  who  saw  very- 
early,  that,  ^' after  all,  we  must  fight" — and  having 
come  to  that  conclusion,  there  was  no  citizen  more 
prepared  for  the  extremity,  or  who  would  have  been 
more  reluctant  to  enter  into  any  kind  of  compromise. 
After  he  had  received  warning,  at  Lexington,  in  the 
night  of  the  18th  of  April,  of  the  intended  British 
expedition,  as  he  proceeded  to  make  his  escape 
through  the  fields  with  some  friends,  soon  after  the 
dawn  of  day,  he  exclaimed,  "  this  is  a  fine  day ! " 
u  Very  pleasant,  indeed,"  answered  one  of  his  com- 
panions, supposing  he  alluded  to  the  beauty  of  the 
sky  and  atmosphere — "  I  mean,"  he  replied,  "  this 
day  is  a  glorious  day  for  America !  "  His  situation  at 
that  moment  was  full  of  peril  and  uncertainty  ;  but 
throughout  the  contest,  no  damage  either  to  himself  or 
his  country,  ever  discouraged  or  depressed  him. 

The  very  faults  of  his  character  tended,  in  some 
degree,  to  render  his  services  more  useful,  by  con- 
verging his  exertions  to  one  point,  and  preventing 
iheir  being  weakened  by  indulgence  or  liberality 
towards  difl:erent  opinions.  There  was  some  tinge  of 
bigotry  and  narrowness,  both  in  his  religion  and  poli- 


334  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

tics.  He  was  a  strict  Calvinist ;  and  probably  no 
individual  of  his  day  had  so  much  of  the  feelings  of 
the  ancient  puritans,  as  he  possessed.  In  politics,  he 
was  so  jealous  of  delegated  power,  that  he  would  not 
have  given  our  Constitutions  inherent  force  enough  for 
their  own  preservation.  He  attached  an  exclusive 
value  to  the  habits  and  principles  in  which  he  had 
been  educated,  and  wished  to  adjust  wide  concerns  too 
closely  after  a  particular  model.  One  of  his  col- 
leagues, who  knew  him  well,  and  estimated  him 
highly,  described  him  with  good  natured  exaggeration 
in  the  following  manner :  "  Samuel  Adams  would 
have  the  state  of  Massachusetts  govern  the  Union, 
the  town  of  Boston  govern  Massachusetts,  and  that 
he  should  govern  the  town  of  Boston,  and  then  the 
whole  would  not  be  intentionally  ill-governed." 

It  was  a  sad  error  of  judgment  that  caused  him  to 
undervalue,  for  a  period  at  least,  the  services  of 
Washington  during  the  revolutionary  war,  and  to  think 
that  his  popularity  when  President,  might  be  danger- 
ous. Still,  these  unfounded  prejudices  were  honestly 
entertained,  and  sprang  naturally  from  his  disposition 
and  doctrines.  During  the  war,  he  was  impatient  for 
some  more  decisive  action,  than  it  was  in  the  power 
of  the  commander-in-chief,  for  a  long  time,  to  bring 
about ;  and  when  the  new  Constitution  went  into  ope- 
ration, its  leaning  towards  aristocracy,  which  was  the 
absurd  imputation  of  its  enemies,  and  which  his  anti- 
federal  bias  led  him  more  readily  to  listen  to,  derived 
all  its  plausibility  from  the  just,  generous,  and  universal 
confidence,  that  was  reposed  in  the  chief  magistrate. 


CHARACTER  OF  SAMUEL  ADAMS.      335 

These  things  influenced  his  conduct  in  old  age,  when 
he  was  Governor  of  Massachusetts,  and  while  the 
extreme  heat  of  political  feelings  would  have  made 
it  impossible,  for  even  a  much  less  positive  character 
to  administer  any  public  concerns  without  one  of  the 
parties  of  that  day  being  dissatisfied.  But  all  these  cir- 
cumstances are  to  be  disregarded,  in  making  an  esti- 
mate of  his  services.  He,  in  fact,  was  born  for  the 
revolutionary  epoch,  he  was  trained  and  nurtured  in  it, 
and  all  his  principles  and  views  were  deeply  imbued 
with  the  dislikes  and  partialities  which  were  created 
durino^  that  Ion  or  strufrde.  He  belonged  to  the  revo- 
lution  ;  all  the  power  and  peculiarity  of  his  character 
were  developed  in  that  career,  and  his  share  in  public 
life,  under  a  subsequent  state  of  things,  must  be  con- 
sidered as  subordinate  and  unimportant. 

He  possessed  an  energy  of  w'ill  that  never  faltered, 
in  the  purpose  of  counteracting  the  arbitrary  plans  of 
the  English  cabinet,  and  which  gradually  engaged  him 
to  strive  for  the  independence  of  the  country.  Every 
part  of  his  character  conduced  to  this  determination. 
His  private  habits,  which  were  simple,  frugal,  and 
unostentatious,  led  him  to  despise  the  luxury  and 
parade  affected  by  the  crown  officers  ;  his  religious 
tenets,  which  made  him  loathe  the  very  name  of  the 
English  church,  preserved  in  his  mind  the  memory  of 
ancient  persecutions,  as  vividly  as  if  they  had  hap- 
pened yesterday,  and  as  anxiously,  as  if  they  might 
be  repeated  to-morrow  ;  his  detestation  of  royalty 
and  privileged  classes,  w^hich  no  man  could  have  felt 
more  deeply — all  these  circumstances  stimulated  him 


33G  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

to  perseverance  in  a  course,  which  he  conscientiously 
believed  it  to  be  his  duty  to  pursue,  for  the  welfare  of 
his  country. 

He  combined,  in  a  remarkable  manner,  all  the  ani- 
mosities and  all  the  firmness,  that  could  qualify  a  man 
to  be  the  assertor  of  the  rights  of  the  people.  Had 
he  lived  in  any  country  or  any  epoch,  when  abuses  of 
power  were  to  be  resisted,  he  would  have  been  one 
of  the  reformers.  He  would  have  suffered  excom- 
munication rather  than  have  bowed  to  papal  infalli- 
bility, or  paid  the  tribute  to  St.  Peter ;  he  would 
have  gone  to  the  stake,  rather  than  submit  to  the 
prelatic  ordinances  of  Laud  ;  he  would  have  mounted 
the  scaffold,  sooner  than  pay  a  shilling  of  illegal  ship- 
money  ;  he  would  have  fled  to  a  desert,  rather  than 
endure  the  profligate  tyranny  of  a  Stuart ;  he  was 
proscribed,  and  would  sooner  have  been  condemned 
as  a  traitor,  than  assent  to  an  illegal  tax,  if  it  had 
been  only  a  six-penny  stamp  or  an  insignificant  duty 
on  tea,  and  there  appeared  to  be  no  species  of  corrup- 
tion by  which  this  inflexibility  could  have  been 
destroyed. 

The  motives  by  which  he  was  actuated,  were  not 
a  sudden  ebullition  of  temper,  nor  a  transient  impulse 
of  resentment,  but  they  were  deliberate,  methodical 
and  unyielding.  There  was  no  pause,  no  hesitation, 
no  despondency  ;  every  day,  and  every  hour,  was 
employed  in  some  contribution  towards  the  main 
design,  if  not  in  action,  in  writing  ;  if  not  with  the 
pen,  in  conversation  ;  if  not  in  talking,  in  meditation. 
The   means   he   advised   were   persuasion,  petition, 


CHARACTER  OF  SAMUEL  ADAMS.      337 

remonstrance,  resolutions,  and  when  all  failed,  defi- 
ance and  extermination  sooner  than  submission.  His 
measures  for  redress  were  all  legitimate ;  and  where 
the  extremity  of  the  case,  as  in  the  destruction  of  the 
tea,  absolutely  required  an  irregularity,  a  vigor  beyond 
the  law,  he  was  desirous  that  it  might  be  redeemed 
by  the  discipline,  good  order,  and  scrupulous  integ- 
rity, with  which  it  should  be  effected. 

With  this  unrelenting  and  austere  spirit,  there  was 
nothing  ferocious,  or  gloomy,  or  arrogant  in  his 
demeanor.  His  aspect  was  mild,  dignified  and  gen- 
tlemanly. In  his  own  state,  or  in  the  Congress  of  the 
Union,  he  was  always  the  advocate  of  the  strongest 
measures ;  and  in  the  darkest  hour  he  never  wavered 
or  desponded.  He  engaged  in  the  cause  with  all  the 
zeal  of  a  reformer,  the  confidence  of  an  enthusiast, 
and  the  cheerfulness  of  a  voluntary  martyr.  It  was 
not  by  brilliancy  of  talents,  or  profoundness  of  learn- 
ing, that  he  rendered  such  essential  service  to  the 
cause  of  the  revolution,  but  by  his  resolute  decision, 
his  unceasing  watchfulness,  and  his  heroic  perseve- 
rance. In  addition  to  these  qualities,  his  efforts  were 
consecrated  by  his  entire  superiority  to  pecuniary  con- 
siderations ;  he,  like  most  of  his  colleagues,  proved 
the  nobleness  of  their  cause,  by  the  virtue  of  their 
conduct :  and  Samuel  Adams,  after  being  so  many 
years  in  the  public  service,  and  having  filled  so  many 
eminent  stations,  must  have  been  buried  at  the  public 
expense,  if  the  afflicting  death  of  an  only  son  had  not 
remedied  this  honorable  poverty. 
29 


THE  INDIANS. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 


Alas  !  for  them — their  day  is  o'er, 
Their  fires  are  out  from  hill  and  shore  ; 
No  more  for  them  the  wild  deer  bounds, 
The  plough  is  on  their  hunting  grounds  : 
The  pale  man's  axe  rings  through  their  woods, 
The  pale  man's  sail  skims  o'er  their  floods, 

Their  pleasant  springs  are  dry  ; 
Their  children — look,  by  power  oppressed, 
Beyond  the  mountains  of  the  west. 

Their  children  go — to  die. 

Oh  doubly  lost !  oblivion's  shadows  close 

Around  their  triumphs  and  their  woes. 

On  other  realms,  whose  suns  have  set. 

Reflected  radiance  lingers  yet ; 

There  sage  and  bard  have  shed  a  light 

That  never  shall  go  down  in  night ; 

There  time-crowned  columns  stand  on  high, 

To  tell  of  them  who  cannot  die  ; 

Even  we,  who  then  were  nothing,  kneel 
In  homage  there,  and  join  earth's  general  peal. 
But  the  doomed  Indian  leaves  behind  no  trace, 
To  save  his  own,  or  serve  another  race  : 


THE  INDIANS.  339 

With  his  frail  breath  his  power  has  passed  away, 
His  deed,  his  thoughts  are  buried  with  his  clay ; 

Nor  lofty  pile,  nor  glowing  page 

Shall  link  him  to  a  future  age. 

Or  give  him  with  the  past  a  rank  : 
His  heraldry  is  but  a  broken  bow, 
His  history  but  a  tale  of  wrong  and  wo, 

His  very  name  must  be  a  blank. 

Cold,  with  the  beast  he  slew,  he  sleeps  ; 

O'er  him  no  filial  spirit  weeps ; 
No  crowds  throng  round,  no  anthem-notes  ascend. 
To  bless  his  coming  and  embalm  his  end  ; 
Even  that  he  lived,  is  for  his  conqueror's  tongue, 
By  foes  alone  his  death-song  must  be  sung ; 

No  chronicles  but  theirs  shall  tell 

His  mournful  doom  to  future  times ; 

May  these  upon  his  virtues  dwell, 

And  in  his  fate  forget  his  crimes. 


THE  BARNSTABLE  BOY. 

By  J.  G.  Palfrey. 

The  duck  does  not  take  to  the  water  with  a  surer 
instinct  than  the  Barnstable  boy.  He  leaps  from  his 
leading-strings  into  the  shrouds.  It  is  but  a  bound 
from  the  mother's  lap  to  the  mast-head.  He  boxes 
the  compass  in  his  infant  soliloquies.  He  can  hand, 
reef,  and  steer,  by  the  time  he  flies  a  kite.  The  am- 
bition of  his  youth  is,  to  ''witch  the  w^orld  with 
noble  seamanship;^''  and  his  manly  "march  is  on 
the  mountain  wave,  his  home  " — no,  no ! — I  am  too 
fast — his  ''  home  is  not  upon  the  deep,"  and,  in  his 
widest  wanderings,  he  never  forgets  that  it  is  not. 
His  home  stands  on  firm  land,  nestled  among  some 
light-houses,  which,  in  the  blackest  midnight  of  a 
polar  winter,  his  mind's  eye  sees,  casting  their  serene 
radiance  over  the  wide  waters,  to  guide  him  back  to 
the  goal,  as  it  was  the  starting-place,  of  life's  varied 
voyage.  While  he  keeps  the  long  night-watches, 
under  the  Cross  of  the  southern  hemisphere,  his  spirit 
is  travelling  half  around  the  globe  to  look  in  at  the 
fireside,  where,  the  household  duties  of  the  day  gone 
through,  the  mother,  or  the  sister,  or  the  wife,  or  the 


THE  BARNSTABLE  BOY.  34  j 

dear  friend  that  is  not  wife,  but  shall  be,  is  musing  on 
her  absent  sailor.  The  gales  of  Cape  Horn,  or  the 
monsoons  of  the  Indian  sea,  are  piping  in  his  cordage  ; 
but  clearer,  and  through  and  above  all  their  roar,  his 
ear  Is  drinking  In  the  low,  sweet  voice,  that  is  lulling 
here  his  Infant's  distant  slumber.  And,  whether  he 
eyes,  with  the  conscious  pride  of  art,  the  "  thing  of 
life  "  he  is  managing,  as,  all  tight  and  trim,  her  upper 
rigging  sent  dow^n,  she  leaps,  free  and  sure-footed, 
poised  by  a  scant  edge  of  main-topsail,  from  peak  to 
peak  of  the"  now  rising,  now  subsiding,  watery  Alps, 
while  his  hoarse  voice,  amid  the  mad  uproar  of  the 
elements,  guides  her  fierce  way  as  If  by  magic — or 
whether,  on  the  quiet  Sabbath,  in  the  garish  sunset,  or 
beneath  the  broad  enveloping  moonlight,  his  beautiful 
vessel  skims  under  the  line,  over  the  level  floor  of 
ocean,  with  all  her  snowy  toggery  (I  should  say  her 
bravery)  set,  as  gentle  and  noiseless  as  a  flock  of 
white  doves — still;  still,  loved  spot  of  his  nativity, 

"  Where'er  he  roams,  whatever  realms  to  see, 
His  heart;  vuitravelled,  fondly  turns  to  thee." 

The  first  sign,  from  which  the  neighbors  gather  that 
the  lad  has  been  prospering,  is,  that  the  old  people's 
house  puts  on  a  new  coat  of  shingles,  and  another 
cow,  if  there  needs  one,  Is  seen  cropping  their  pas- 
ture ;  his  second  lucky  adventure  makes  his  younger 
brothers  and  sisters  happy  the  next  time  they  go 
abroad,  not  so  much  for  the  gayer  figure  it  has  enabled 
them  to  make,  as  because  it  betokens  how  kindly  they 
29* 


342 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


were  thought  of  by  one  so  far  away  ;  and  the  third — 
the  third  is  very  apt  to  serve  as  an  occasion  for  whis- 
pering in  some  not  reluctant  ear,  that  it  is  ahuost  time 
he  had  a  snug  home  of  his  own,  where  he  could  be 
made  more  comfortable  after  these  tedious  voyages. 

I  beheve  it  was  Cotton  Mather,  who,  in  speaking 
of  the  mother  of  one  of  his  worthies,  said,  ''  She  was 
just  the  parent  one  might  have  desired  to  be  born  of." 
He  did  not  mean  to  disparage  other  people's  mo- 
thers— he  was  too  well-bred  an  historian  for  that ;  nor 
do  we  mean  to  offer  any  shght  to  the  places  of  other 
people's  origin,  if  we  ask  whether  there  is  any  other 
place,  to  which,  in  preference  to  this,  a  reasonable 
man  might  reasonably  desire  to  trace  his  own.  We 
arrogate  no  more  than  the  cautious  Ulysses  did  of  old, 
when  he  said  of  his  flat  and  rocky  Ithaca, 

"  Rugged  she  is^  but  fruitful  nurse  of  sons 
Magnanimous  5  nor  shall  these  eyes  behold 
Elsewhere  an  object  dear  and  sweet  as  she," 


THE  STILL  SMALL   VOICE. 

By  Geo.  W.  Light. 

Hear  ye  not,  when  the  morning  breaks 

Over  the  far-off  mountains, 
And  each  bird  of  the  woodland  wakes, 
While  the  sunlight  gleams  on  the  lakes 
And  the  silvery  fountains, 
A  voice  in  the  silent  sky. 
In  the  grove's  rich  melody  ? — 
The  spirit  of  God  is  nigh  ! 
With  the  earliest  dawn,  comes  the  still  small  voice  ! 

Hear  ye  not,  when  the  sun  burns  strong, 

And  the  land  and  the  sea  are  bright. 
And  the  streamlets,  that  murmur  along 
Through  valleys  of  bloom  and  song, 
Rejoice  in  the  noon-tide  light, 
A  voice  where  the  sea-winds  play. 
Where  the  rivulet  glides  away  1 — 
The  spirit  of  God  doth  say. 
In  the  sun's  broad  blaze,  hear  the  still  small  voice ! 


344  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

Hear  ye  not,  when  the  sun  goes  down, 
With  his  crimson  banner  outspread, 
And  receives  his  radiant  crown. 
While  the  shades  of  evening  frown 
Upon  his  glorious  bed, 

A  voice  where  the  calm  clouds  lie, 
Where  the  twilight  breeze  goes  by  ? — 
The  spirit  of  God  is  nigh  ! 
O'er  the  sunset  sea,  breathes  the  still  small  voice  ! 

Hear  ye  not,  when  the  moonbeams  fall 

On  the  slumbering  ocean, 
And  the  stars,  at  the  night-spirit's  call. 
Come  forth,  and  shine  over  all. 
With  a  tremulous  motion, 

A  voice  on  the  solemn  air  ? — 
'T  is  nature's  evening  prayer  : 
The  spirit  of  God  is  there  ! 
Through  the  starlight  gloom,  comes  the  still  small  voice! 


MANNERS   OF   WASHINGTON. 


By  William  Sullivan. 

Washington  was  over  six  feet  in  stature,  of  strong, 
bony,  muscular  frame,  without  fulness  of  covering,  well 
formed  and  straight.  He  was  a  man  of  most  extraor- 
dinary physical  strength.  In  his  own  house  bis  action 
was  calm,  deliberate,  and  dignified,  without  pretension 
to  gracefulness,  or  peculiar  manner,  but  merely  natural, 
and  sucb  as  one  would  think  it  should  be  in  such  a 
man.  When  walking  in  the  street,  his  movement  had 
not  the  soldierly  air  which  might  be  expected.  His 
habitual  motions  had  been  formed  long  before  he  took 
command  of  the  American  armies,  in  the  wars  of  the 
interior,  and  in  the  surveying  of  wilderness  lands, 
employments  in  which  grace  and  elegance  were  not 
likely  to  be  acquired.  At  the  age  of  sixty-five,  time 
had  done  nothing  towards  bending  him  out  of  his 
natural  erectness.  His  deportment  was  invariably 
grave  ;  it  was  sobriety  that  stopped  short  of  sadness. 
His  presence  inspired  a  veneration,  and  a  feeling  of 
awe,  rarely  experienced  in  the  presence  of  any  man. 
His  mode  of  speaking  was  slow  and  deliberate ;  not  as 
though  he  was  in  search  of  fine  words,  but  that  he 
might  utter  those  only  adapted  to  his  purpose.     It 


346  THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 

was  the  usage  for  all  persons,  in  good  society,  to 
attend  Mrs.  Washington's  levee  every  Friday  even- 
ing. He  was  always  present.  The  young  ladies 
used  to  throng  around  him,  and  engage  him  in  con- 
versation. There  were  some  of  the  well  remembered 
belles  of  that  day  who  imagined  themselves  to  be 
favorites  with  him.  As  these  were  the  only  oppor- 
tunities which  tliey  had  of  conversing  with  him,  they 
were  disposed  to  use  them.  One  would  think,  that 
a  gentleman  and  a  gallant  soldier,  if  he  could  ever 
laugh,  or  dress  his  countenance  in  smiles,  would  do 
so  when  surrounded  by  young  and  admiring  beauties. 
But  this  was  never  so  ;  the  countenance  of  Washing- 
ton never  softened  ;  nor  changed  its  habitual  gravity. 
One  who  had  lived  ahvays  in  his  family,  said,  that  his 
manner  in  public  life,  and  in  the  seclusion  of  most 
retired  life,  was  ahvays  the  same.  Being  asked 
whether  Washington  could  laugh,  this  person  said, 
that  this  was  a  rare  occurrence,  but  that  one  instance 
was  remembered  when  he  laughed  most  heartily  at 
her  narration  of  an  incident  in  which  she  was  a  party 
concerned  ;  and  in  which  he  applauded  her  agency. 
The  late  General  Cobb,  who  was  long  a  member  of 
liis  family  during  the  war,  (and  who  enjoyed  a  laugh 
as  much  as  any  man  could,)  said,  that  he  never  saw 
Washington  laugh,  excepting  when  Colonel  Scamniel 
(if  this  was  the  person)  came  to  dine  at  head-quar- 
ters. Scammel  had  a  fund  of  ludicrous  anecdotes, 
and  a  manner  of  telling  them,  which  relaxed  even 
the  gravity  of  the  commander-in-chief.  *  * 


MANNERS  OF  WASHINGTON.  347 

During  bis  presidency,  he  devoted  one  hour  every 
other  Tuesday,  from  three  to  four,  to  receiving  visits. 
He  understood  himself  to  be  visited  as  the  President 
of  the  United  States,  and  not  on  bis  own  account. 
He  was  not  to  be  seen  by  any  body  and  every  body  ; 
but  required  that  every  one  who  came  should  be  intro- 
duced by  his  Secretary,  or  by  some  gentleman,  whom 
he  knew  himself.  He  lived  on  the  south  side  of 
Chestnut  street,  just  below  Sixth.  The  place  of  re- 
ception was  the  dining  room  in  the  rear,  twenty-five  or 
thirty  feet  in  length,  including  the  bow  projecting  into 
the  garden.  Mrs.  Washington  received  her  visiters  in 
the  two  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  from  front  to  rear. 

At  three  o'clock,  or  at  any  time  within  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  afterwards,  the  visiter  was  conducted  to  this 
dining  room,  from  which  all  seats  had  been  removed 
for  the  time.  On  entering,  he  saw  the  tall  manly 
figure  of  Washington  clad  in  black  velvet ;  his  hair  in 
full  dress,  powdered  and  gathered  behind  in  a  large 
silk  bag ;  yellow  gloves  on  his  hands ;  holding  a 
cocked  hat  with  a  cockade  in  it,  and  the  edges 
adorned  with  a  black  feather  about  an  inch  deep. 
He  wore  knee  and  shoe  buckles  :  and  a  long  sword, 
with  a  finely  wrought  and  polished  steel  hilt,  which 
appeared  at  the  left  hip  ;  the  coat  worn  over  the 
blade,  and  appearing  from  under  the  folds  behind. 
The  scabbard  was  white  polished  leather. 

He  stood  always  in  front  of  the  fire-place,  with  his 
face  towards  the  door  of  entrance.  The  visiter  was 
conducted  to  him,  and  he  required  to  have  the  name 
so  distinctly  pronounced,  that  he  could  hear  it.     He 


348 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


had  the  very  uncommon  faculty  of  associating  a  man's 
name,  and  personal  appearance,  so  durably  in  his 
memory,  as  to  be  able  to  call  any  one  by  name,  who 
made  him  a  second  visit.  He  received  his  visiter 
with  a  dignified  bow,  while  his  hands  were  so  dis- 
posed of  as  to  indicate  that  the  salutation  was  not  to 
be  accompanied  with  shaking  hands.  This  ceremony 
never  occurred  in  these  visits,  even  with  his  most 
near  friends,  that  no  distinction  might  be  made. 

As  visiters  came  in,  they  formed  a  circle  around 
the  room.  At  a  quarter  past  three,  the  door  was 
closed,  and  the  circle  was  formed  for  that  day.  He 
then  began  on  the  right,  and  spoke  to  each  visiter, 
calling  him  by  name,  and  exchanging  a  few  words 
with  him.  When  he  had  completed  his  circuit,  he 
resumed  his  first  position,  and  the  visiters  approached 
him,  in  succession,  bowed  and  retired.  By  four 
o'clock  this  ceremony  was  over. 

On  the  evenings  when  Mrs.  Washington  received 
visiters,  he  did  not  consider  himself  as  visited.  He 
was  then  as  a  private  gentleman,  dressed  usually  in 
some  colored  coat  and  waistcoat,  (the  only  one  recol- 
lected was  brown,  with  bright  buttons,)  and  black,  on 
his  lower  limbs.  He  had  then  neither  hat  nor  sword  ; 
he  moved  about  among  the  company,  conversing  with 
one  and  another.  He  had,  once  a  fortnight,  an  official 
dinner,  and  select  companies  on  other  days.  He  sat 
(it  is  said)  at  the  side,  in  a  central  position,  Mrs. 
Washington  opposite  ;  the  two  ends  were  occupied 
by  members  of  his  family,  or  by  personal  friends. 


THE  BROTHERS. 


By  Charles  Sprague. 

We  are  but  two — the  others  sleep 
Through  death's  untroubled  night : 

We  are  but  two — O  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright. 

Heart  leaps  to  heart — the  sacred  flood 
That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 

That  good  old  man — his  honest  blood 
Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked- 

Long  be  her  love  repaid ; 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked, 

Round  the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  wo  : — 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  two — be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 
30 


DUTIES  OF  AMERICAN  MOTHERS. 

By  Daniel  Webster. 

It  is  by  the  promulgation  of  sound  morals  in  the 
community,  and  more  especially  by  the  training  and 
instruction  of  the  young,  that  woman  performs  her 
part  towards  the  preservation  of  a  free  government. 
It  is  now  generally  admitted,  that  public  liberty,  the 
perpetuity  of  a  free  constitution,  rests  on  the  virtue 
and  intelligence  of  the  community  which  enjoys  it. 
How  is  that  virtue  to  be  inspired,  and  how  is  that 
intelligence  to  be  communicated  ?  Bonaparte  once 
asked  Madame  de  Stael  in  what  manner  he  could 
most  promote  the  happiness  of  France.  Her  reply  is 
full  of  political  wisdom.  She  said — "  Instruct  the 
mothers  of  the  French  people."  Because  the  mothers 
are  the  affectionate  and  effective  teachers  of  the  human 
race.  The  mother  begins  this  process  of  training  with 
the  infant  in  her  arms.  It  is  she  who  directs,  so  to 
speak,  its  first  mental  and  spiritual  pulsations.  She 
conducts  it  along  the  impressible  years  of  childhood 
and  youth  ;  and  hopes  to  deliver  it  to  the  rough  con- 
tests and  tumultuous  scenes  of  life,  armed  by  those 
good  principles  which  her  child  has  first  received  from 
maternal  care  and  love. 


DUTIES  OF  AMERICAN  3IOTHERS.  351 

If  we  draw  within  the  circle  of  our  contemplation 
the  mothers  of  a  civilized  nation,  what  do  we  see  ? 
We  behold  so  many  artificers  working,  not  on  frail 
and  perishable  matter,  but  on  the  immortal  mind, 
moulding  and  fashioning  beings  who  are  to  exist  for- 
ever. We  applaud  the  artist  whose  skill  and  genius 
present  the  mimic  man  upon  the  canvass — we  admire 
and  celebrate  the  sculptor  who  works  out  that  same 
image  in  enduring  marble — but  how  insignificant  are 
these  achievements,  though  the  highest  and  the  fairest 
in  all  the  department  of  art,  in  comparison  with  the 
great  vocation  of  human  mothers  !  They  work  not 
upon  the  canvass  that  shall  fail,  or  the  marble  that 
shall  crumble  into  dust — but  upon  mind,  upon  spirit, 
which  is  to  last  forever,  and  which  is  to  bear,  for  good 
or  evil,  throughout  its  duration,  the  impress  of  a 
mother's  plastic  hand. 

1  have  already  expressed  the  opinion,  which  all 
allow  to  be  correct,  that  our  security  for  the  duration 
of  the  free  institutions  which  bless  our  country,  de- 
pends upon  the  habits  of  virtue  and  the  prevalence  of 
knowledge  and  of  education.  Knowledge  does  not 
comprise  all  which  is  contained  in  the  larger  term  of 
education.  The  feelings  are  to  be  disciplined — the 
passions  are  to  be  restrained — true  and  worthy  mo- 
tives are  to  be  inspired — a  profound  religious  feeling 
is  to  be  instilled,  and  pure  morality  inculcated,  under 
all  circumstances.  All  this  is  comprised  in  education. 
Mothers  who  are  faithful  to  this  great  duty,  will  tell 
their  children  that  neither  in  political  nor  in  any  other 


352 


THE  BOSTON  BOOK. 


concerns  of  life,  can  man  ever  withdraw  himself  from 
the  perpetual  obligations  of  conscience  and  of  duty : 
that  in  every  act,  whether  public  or  private,  he  incurs 
a  just  responsibility  ;  and  that  in  no  condition  is  he 
warranted  in  trifling  with  important  rights  and  obliga- 
tions. They  will  impress  upon  their  children  the 
truth,  that  the  exercise  of  the  elective  franchise  is  a 
social  duty,  of  as  solemn  a  nature  as  man  can  be 
called  to  perform;  that  a  man  may  not  innocently 
trifle  with  his  vote ;  that  every  free  elector  is  a  trus- 
tee as  well  for  others  as  himself;  and  that  every  man 
and  every  measure  he  supports,  has  an  important 
bearing  on  the  interests  of  others  as  well  as  on  his 
own.  It  is  in  the  inculcation  of  high  and  pure  morals 
such  as  these,  that  in  a  free  Republic,  woman  per- 
forms her  sacred  duty,  and  fulfils  her  destiny.  *  The 
French  are  remarkable  for  their  fondness  for  sen- 
tentious phrases,  in  which  much  meaning  is  con- 
densed into  a  small  space.  1  noticed  lately,  on  the 
title  page  of  one  of  the  books  of  popular  instruction 
in  France,  this  motto — "  Pour  instruction  on  the 
heads  of  the  people  ;  you  owe  them  that  baptism." 
And  certainly,  if  there  be  any  duty  which  may  be 
described  by  a  reference  to  that  great  institute  of  reli- 
gion, a  duty  approaching  it  in  importance,  perhaps 
next  to  it  in  obligation,  it  is  this. 


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